


What Dreams May Come

by aparticularbandit



Category: The Haunting of Bly Manor (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fix-It of Sorts, Other, also includes characters from Jane the Virgin, but i don't think it belongs in that fandom, or even is really a crossover, that just happens to briefly include characters for reasons that will make sense eventually, they don't even come in until like chapter 29 and they aren't main focus in the slightest, this is a bly manor fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:00:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 96,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26976241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aparticularbandit/pseuds/aparticularbandit
Summary: You ache from abandonment, and she calls you home.Or: Viola lingers, and Dani learns to live with her.
Relationships: Dani Clayton & Viola Lloyd, Dani Clayton/Jamie
Comments: 216
Kudos: 864





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know this has been done already - but I started this...Saturday, I think, and it just sits and stares at me, you know? I wasn't even sure it was going to be fix-it fic until maybe yesterday while thinking over it more.
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> I was just /intrigued/ so much by all of that. I guess you could say this carries over from my first Bly Manor fic, that it was explorative writing for this one, and I think that's right.
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> Enjoy?

It’s impossible – those first few eternities – to still yourself, to cease the ceaseless cycle: sleep, forget, wake, walk; sleep, forget, wake, walk – but bound as you are in the cell that you have chosen, you are unable to walk, and unable to walk, you are unable to sleep; unable to sleep, you are unable to wake; and everything has already been forgotten, so what is there to forget?

You do not know this, but others like you are forced into their memories when they are tucked away, as you are now. You have no memories, and so, you cannot be tucked away. With nothing else open to you, there is only sitting and watching and gathering strength.

She describes you as a beast, ravenous, waiting at the end of a deep, thick jungle – a monster straight out of her fairytales – and in her describing, you are given room and space to walk again. A jungle, deep and thick, and a pathway that leads from your contained cell into her. There is a gate at the end of the path with a key rusted shut inside that you cannot turn.

You climb over the fence, shredding your white dress, and you watch.

* * *

“I can feel her, sometimes.” Dani places her fingertips at the back of her skull, right where its base meets the top of her neck, in the little divot between the muscles holding them together. “She wanders.” Her fingers creep up through her hair, along the midway point between her two lobes, down her forehead, and then stop, resting on the bridge of her nose, just between her eyes. “She sits, and she stays.” She pinches the bridge of her nose and winces. “It hurts, and it scares me.”

Jamie rummages about in one of the spare drawers in their kitchen, pulling out a pill bottle. “Advil?” She shuffles through and pulls out another one. “Or ibuprofen?” Her eyes meet Dani’s, and her lips curve in a smile that isn’t near as jovial as her tone is.

“I….” Dani hesitates. “I don’t think that’ll help.” She places one hand over Jamie’s so that their fingers touch. “It’ll deaden me, and then if she wants to take me, she can—” The pain rests between her eyes, and she sees the reflection of _that horrible woman_ on the pale, clear orange of the pill bottle, and she flinches away. The pill bottle clatters to the floor. Her hands flick out, flutter, shake, as though to shake the image, that horrible feeling, but it doesn’t move, and _she_ doesn’t move, and no matter how much deep breathing and relaxation techniques she has learned over the years, this will always spook her, and her heart will always race, and she will always start breathing quick, and she will always be covered with a thin veil of sweat that pools at her brow.

“Hey.” Jamie takes her hand and gives it a squeeze – sometimes gentle, but never so now, because this is grounding, this is giving her something real and present and clear to focus on, and it is never so harsh as to harm her but is always tight enough to remind her who is really here. “You’re okay. You’re still you.”

Dani nods. She _is_ still her. This is a real moment, a present one. This is not a tucking away, not a hiding in a memory. She has never experienced that herself, never had the occasion to experience it, but remembers how the children described it – stuck in a memory, knowing that it wasn’t quite real, but enclosed in it all the same. Even pleasant memories seem terrifying and broken when you aren’t allowed to move past them, she is sure.

When the woman comes for her, what dreams may come?

The pain moves – the woman moves – from between her eyes and up, just to the forefront of her mind. It isn’t quite like a migraine. She used to get those on her period sometimes, things that Flora might have called _perfectly dreadful_ if she had known of them, but they feel nothing like this singular pressure that travels from one end to the other and sits and stares and moves and sits and stays and moves and moves and moves—

Migraines might have pressure points, but the pain radiates outward. They come with auras that make it harder for her to see, and before Bly Manor – before Eddie – she would lock herself in a dark room and cover her eyes with an even darker rag and force herself into darkness to ease the pain alone. Sometimes the far too dark unsettles her now. At first, it had been seeing Eddie everywhere, and then there was that brief period of being free, and now….

Now it’s Bly Manor and the woman writhing inside her like a parasite that must consume and the knowledge that this pressure is not a migraine and not something she can soothe away into nothingness but one she must acknowledge and be aware of but also ignore to try and maintain any semblance of normal.

They aren’t normal.

The woman, the creature, the beast slowly creeps back to that spot at the base of her skull, and then she disappears, and then Dani breathes easy again.


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes there is fruit on the trees on the other side of the gate.

The longer you are here, the more you remember – not about you, specifically, because these are not memories that living in or exploring another person’s mind can return to you, but about commonalities between the mortal human being’s experience. You remember food and eating it. You remember water and drinking it. You remember clothes and how they can feel along your skin when they aren’t completely soaked and clinging to you as helplessly as seaweed once tied itself around your ankles. You remember that there is food and drink and clothes that you like and that there is food and drink and clothes that you dislike, but it has been long enough that you can’t begin to remember which is which.

Sometimes there is fruit on the trees on the other side of the gate, and sometimes, curious, you pick it for a taste.

Some of the fruit is so sweet that it makes your jaw ache like the abandonment that set you walking, and some of it is so bitter that its darkness stirs the rage that lies dormant in your chest, and some of it is neither but a word that you can’t quite remember because you haven’t used it in so long.

You hear it, sitting behind her eyes one day, and you relax, or try to, pretending that you remember what the word even means. You feel the slope of her shoulders losing their tension, you feel her taking deep breaths, you see her eyes close, and you wonder if doing any of that will do anything for you where you are.

Sometimes, on your side of the gate, back in the little cell where you were first contained, you find a bed that you knew once, many years ago, and you sit on it, and you force your shoulders to lose their tension, and you close your eyes, and you take deep breaths. The rage boils in your chest, but it no longer spreads ironclad to the tips of your fingers.

You do not know if this is good, but it is new.

You are not sure if you like new.

* * *

Dani winces again, fingers pressing lightly on the back of her skull, right at the place where it meets her neck, right between where the thick muscles connect the two, and the cool of her fingertips lends her the slightest bit of relief. She sighs and rolls her head to one side, lips parting ever so slightly.

“You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”

Her eyes flicker open and it takes a second – just a second, never more than a second – to remember where she is again. The television plays in front of her. It’s one of those cheesy sitcoms – _Full House_ – which had started while she was at Bly and was waiting for her when she returned. It isn’t that she likes sitcoms, but there is something comforting in the minute changes and the knowledge that, no matter where it goes, she won’t ache for the resolution of a storyline that may never come. Drama feels a little too close to home, and they don’t watch horror. Movies or tv shows – if it contains supernatural elements, they don’t watch it. If drama hits close to home, those do more so, and Dani doesn’t want to be reminded of what will happen to her, eventually.

It hasn’t happened yet, as Jamie always reminds her, but she can’t shake the dread that fills her whenever the pressure – like now – hits that spot where her neck and skull connect, one that only grows when the lady of the lake begins to wander.

“Mmm.” Dani nods, swallowing, and licks her dry lips. She crosses her legs and turns to Jamie – the best friend she has ever had – _more_ than a friend, although they haven’t been able to say much about that in public. Her mother still believes they are just friends, and she’s not certain she will ever break the news to Edmund’s mom. She can’t imagine that would go over well. In fact, she can hear her response now – “Just because Edmund _died_ doesn’t mean there aren’t any other good _men_ out there for you!” It isn’t worth the price Jamie would have to pay just for being hers.

Hiding is easier. Not running – if they ever guessed at the truth, she would tell them. But she sees little point in breaking contact with family so abruptly when she doesn’t know that she’ll be around long enough to see them grow out of their prejudices and move on. Not when the being inside of her aches for—

Dani blinks.

What does she ache for?

Where had _that_ thought come from?

“Dani?” Jamie moves closer to her, wraps one arm around her shoulder, and kneads her fingers softly against her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Dani shakes her head, fingers moving to rub her forehead, although the pressure of the creature hasn’t moved. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’re not acting like nothing’s wrong.” Jamie’s eyes narrow, and she turns the television off.

Dani swats at her. “Hey! I was watching that!”

Jamie stares at her, and a little smile curves one corner of her lips. “Were you? What was just happening, then? Give me an overview, Ms. Clayton.”

Dani lets out a sigh. “You are not my student, and I am not your teacher, _and no matter how much you want to play that game_ , we’re not going there right now. Besides, if you were paying more attention to the show and less attention to me, you wouldn’t need me to explain it.” She presses her lips together, but they form a little smile anyway.

“You’re more fun to watch.”

“Oh, am I?” Dani raises one brow, smile deepening as Jamie leans forward to kiss her. Her fingers move to brush through the hair at the nape of her girlfriend’s neck. Content.

The pressure at the back of her neck throbs once – vicious – and she winces, pulling away. “Sorry. _Sorry._ It’s just—”

“Don’t apologize.” Jamie presses her fingers at that spot at the back of Dani’s neck. They have been together so long, and Dani has done this so often, especially recently, that she knows just where the pressure rests. Her fingertips are colder than Dani’s are – always have been – and they’re ice where she needs it most. “You’re warm again.”

“It’s her. It’s the rage. It must keep her warm. How else could she survive under that lake?”

You hear her. You blink. You were—

“—dead,” Jamie says, pressing a kiss to the edge of Dani’s temples. “I don’t think she can feel the cold.”

“Then why does it always feel so good?” Dani places her hand over Jamie’s, holding it against her neck. The pressure ebbs and flows and finally subsides. She breathes a sigh of relief before curling up against her girlfriend, leaning her head against her chest.

“You better, Poppins?” Jamie presses a hand against her forehead and nods once. “You feel better.”

Dani nods against Jamie’s chest. “I think she likes the cold,” she mutters. “The lake was cold. The dead are cold. Maybe it’s familiar to her. Maybe it’s soothing.” She presses her lips together. “Maybe this—” she raises one hand, flops it in the air so that her overly large sleep shirt flops with it, covering her hand, “—all seems strange. Maybe that’s why she hasn’t….” She shakes her head and swallows. “Maybe that’s why I’ve been good for this long. She doesn’t understand it. When she does….” Her voice fades into nothingness.

“We’ll think about that when it comes.” Jamie brushes a hand through her hair and doesn’t complain when Dani reaches for the remote, presses the button that turns the show back on. Full House has already ended, and something else – something far less interesting to either of them – has taken its place. She rubs Dani’s back gently. “Want me to turn it off?”

Dani shakes her head. “Princess Bride’s still in the player. Can we—?”

Jamie feigns a beleaguered sigh, but she presses play anyway. She always forgets to rewind the tapes, but Dani remembers. Mostly with Princess Bride. It’s one of the few movies they’ve seen recently that doesn’t make her cry.

Most of the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got the rough of the next two chapters done and just started on the fifth - this is...really slow in terms of pacing, I think? IDK. It builds, I hope.
> 
> I'm trying to stay ahead by a chapter or two, though. Don't know if I'll keep that up - and probably won't be posting a chapter a day, but realized that this one was its own distinct chapter from the next one, so it's up.
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> I hope you enjoy them! ><'''''''''


	3. Chapter 3

You slowly learn the names of the fruit. The achingly sweet one is an apple, the bitter one an orange, and the relaxing one that is neither she calls a plum. Sometimes you see through her eyes, and when you learn that you do not eat an orange the way that you eat apples or plums, that instead you peel back the thicker, rubber exterior to get to the better fruit within, you have a much easier time with it. Oranges will never be your favorite – the purple flesh of the plum is – but they are tolerable.

Sometimes, when she is sleeping, you wake, and sometimes, when she lies still, you walk.

There is no easy pathway the way there once was. You do not draw yourself out of an otherwise still lake, and there is no fog to chill against your frigid skin. Mud no longer clings to your bare feet – because there is no mud in their apartment; at least, there is no mud on the floor – and so you leave no footprints behind. There is nothing to indicate you have woken at all.

You look at the face in the mirror, and it does not seem familiar to you. Before you had joined with her, you had not been able to see her, not really. You had only been able to see the girl in your arms, your treasure to be stolen, and the path you were continuing to take like clockwork. But you had _heard_ her, and in hearing, known where she was to imagine her.

The face in the mirror does not look quite like what you had imagined.

You stand in front of the mirror and you stare and your eyes are two different mottled colors and you have no way of knowing that you were the one who caused that. Your lips – _her_ lips – press together in thought, brows knitting together, and you think, vaguely, that you don’t look like that. _Didn’t_ look like that. You remember dark hair, long, against pale skin. Of course, you remember this – you, at least, maintained your form throughout the years, even if the specifics disappeared. You had walked through a lake. It only makes sense that you had seen your reflection.

This is not you. This is not who you were. This is nothing like you.

You return to their bed and you stand and you stare again.

Something beats once, soft, in your chest. A bird, perhaps, beating its wings once before alighting on a branch to sing. There is no singing in your chest. Just the gentle landing of the bird. You remember wanting more than just the girl. There had been something else. You do not remember what it was, exactly, but you remember aching for the shared warmth of a bed.

When you curl up beneath their sheets and the other woman moves against you, wrapping her arms around you without really knowing that you are there, you feel warm. It is not the same warmth, but it is enough.

Almost enough.

You think there should be a cradle, just here, just on your side of the bed, just within reach, so that you can let your fingers drip from the edge of the bed and down into the mouth of a baby girl using them to teethe.

When you look, there is no cradle, and there is no child, but you can still feel your fingertips brushing the curl of dark hair from her temple. She looks at you with bright brown eyes, so much like your own once were, and blinks sleepily at you before yawning. She never cries.

You are tucked away and you don’t even realize that it is happening.

* * *

Dani dreams when she sleeps.

This is not true of every person. Some people sleep just fine with no dreams attached, and some people take sleeping pills because they have trouble sleeping and so have few dreams, and some people have such vivid and unrealistic dreams that they can spin stories over breakfast of everything they remember – often not much, just the highlights, just the feelings of them. Dreams, when you wake, tend to fade just as quickly as memories might.

She does not always remember her dreams when she wakes, as is the way of people and dreams, but there is one that she has more and more frequently, and so frequent is it that she begins to remember little bits and pieces of it.

Dani finds herself in bed. It’s not her bed. It isn’t a bed she has ever seen before, but it looks like one that might have existed in Bly. She sits upright and pulls her knees to her chest, and as she does, she finds herself in a floor-length white nightgown. The gown bunches about her bare feet. She curls her toes. They dig into the blankets as she stares around the room.

Straight across from her is something that looks like a large, intricately carved armoire, but somehow it has been laid almost flush within the wall, like a built-in pirate’s chest, although flat. Sometimes the first thing she does is get up out of bed and walk towards it, run her fingers along the carvings, brush them against the handles. She never opens it first. Somehow, that seems just as sacrilegious as her sweetened iced tea is to Jamie.

She turns left to windows covered with dark curtains, and she pulls them aside, hoping to see something that can place her some _where_. But outside the windowpanes is _nothing_ , only darkness, only this deep, seeping inky black worse than the fog that once set over Bly’s lake. And, again, she feels like she must be at Bly, only she has never seen panes like this there – one of them has a crack across one corner that seems to have been filled in with gold. She would have remembered that, if she had seen it. She’s _certain_ she would have remembered it. She presses her hand flat against the pane and continues to stare out, as though that will change things, but it doesn’t.

When she passes by the chest again, her fingers brush along it. Sometimes it feels damp – like the grass just off the lake, settled with dew and mist.

The door is next. Always the door next. She walks to it, bare feet along cold hardwood floor, edge of the nightgown sweeping along behind her, growing dirtier as she walks, and she tries to open it. Locked. Always locked. She jostles the doorknob again. Nothing. Her eyes return to the chest inlaid in the wall, and then she goes to it, then she is determined, and when she opens it to rich fabrics and silks and lace and _soft_ and what she knows _must_ be expensive covered all over with rose petals and reeking with the scent of them, she is resigned. She does not know _why_ she is resigned, but she is.

Sometimes, she takes one of the dresses and holds it against herself, although she’s never been one to want to wear old Victorian-style dresses such as these. It isn’t that she is imagining herself in it – she isn’t – but they’re so soft….

Sometimes, she takes one of the dresses and holds it against herself and moves to the locked door, stands in front of it, eagerly waiting, eagerly expecting…something, some _one_ , although she doesn’t know who.

Sometimes, she leaves the dresses where they are and falls back on the bed and looks up and pretends that she isn’t in this room at all, although she doesn’t know where she would be if she weren’t here.

But the dream always ends the same way. She goes over to the vanity, just to the right of the bed, across from the windowpanes, situated right next to the locked door, and pulls open the drawers. There are countless jewels inside – necklaces, rings, bracelets – gold and silver dripping with rubies, sapphires, diamonds – more than her modest budget would ever be able to afford, certainly more than even the expensive silks and fabrics in the chest. Her fingers brush them, too, and they feel cold and hard. Then she looks up, to where there _should_ be a mirror, only to find it covered, draped with a dark fabric that must have been taken from that chest, even though she was never the one to take it. Curious, she pulls the fabric away, so that she can see herself in the mirror, and as the fabric falls—

She wakes up.

* * *

Dani’s hands wrap around her mug as she curls up on their sofa, bare legs tucked up underneath her, and she blows the steam off of the top, staring across at Jamie. It’s been months since the events at Bly Manor, but no matter how much Jamie tries, Dani is still _hopeless_ at making tea. Or coffee. She’d always thought her coffee was at least _passable_ , but one sip of Jamie’s and she just—

Well, she didn’t give up, but she’s not the sort of person who’s going to tell Jamie _no_ if she wants to make the coffee. (Jamie rarely makes coffee. She usually makes tea. She’s called Dani’s southern iced tea a sacrilege, but Dani has _seen_ her sipping at it on her own every now and again when she thinks Dani isn’t looking. Obviously it is better than she is letting on.)

Jamie wraps one hand around her own pink mug, fingers pressed through the handle, just away from the string holding the packet of tea in its place. “So. Tell me about this dream you’ve been having, Poppins.” She meets Dani’s eyes and says, “Sound like my old therapist, talking like that. Hope I picked up a few things.” She takes a sip of her tea, watching her carefully.

And, of course, Dani tells her. It’s impossible _not_ to tell her. She remembers more of it today than she did yesterday, remembers more of that yearning for what lay outside of the locked door, but it’s still not something she can exactly put into words. She looks down into her mug of coffee, and she tells it all, as much as she can remember, and when she’s done, her legs are tucked up even tighter underneath her. She takes a sip of her coffee, feels it warm her throat all the way down to where it sits, warm, in her belly, and looks up, meeting Jamie’s eyes with a shrug. “I’ve had other dreams, too, you know,” she admits, lips pressing together. “It’s not just that one, but it’s the one that keeps coming back. It’s the one I remember the most.”

“Your dreams are a lot stranger than mine are, Poppins.” Jamie sits the way she always sits – one knee pulled near to her, the other leg stretched out – and it seems weird to Dani that she is barefoot and not in the thick gardening boots she loves so much.

No. It’s not weird. This is normal. It is all very, very normal. She appreciates the normalcy of it all, how comforting its day-to-day routine has become.

Jamie taps her mug with her fingers again. “Do you think the dream means anything?”

“I don’t know.” Dani shakes her head, as though to clear it, although that doesn’t really help. There’s a pressure – sudden – at the back of her skull, and she winces, presses her fingertips to it, and the pressure subsides. “I don’t know what it would mean if it meant anything. I just… _keep having it_.” She looks up, offers Jamie a little smile, and shrugs. “Do you have any dreams that you keep having?”

Jamie’s eyes glance up, breaking the contact, and her head bobs to one side and then the other, as though to a good song, lips pursed in thought, before she finally stills. “Got a lot of dreams, Poppins. Not many worth sharing.” Then she meets Dani’s eyes again, bit of a grin tucked away at the corner of her lips. “And all the dreams I got worth sharing, I’m sharing with you.”

Dani flushes a bright scarlet. She puts her now cool mug to one side and curls up next to Jamie, presses a kiss to her cheek. “I love you.”

“Love you, too, Poppins. Always will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still roughly two chapters ahead. Ish. Have some changes I think I want to make to the second of those because there's a build I want to have instead of a lot of all at once.
> 
> I hope this pacing doesn't feel too slow to y'all, but it feels like it /should/ be slow, you know?
> 
> Also have a couple of other ideas for fics - a one-shot (lots of angst) and another multi-chapter fic - but not sure if I'm going to write those or not. Just thinking.


	4. Chapter 4

You sit up in a bed that is not yours.

You sit up in a bed that is not yours and you look out on a world with eyes that are not yours and the world has passed you by but you’re not sure you know what that means exactly. It isn’t your phrase. But it jiggles in the back of your mind like something you should know and yet don’t.

You sit up in a bed that is not yours and you look out on a world with eyes that are not yours and you see a woman in bed next to you instead of a man – you don’t know why you should expect a man when there has only ever been a woman here when you’ve left the jungle and tucked her away – and she shifts in the bed, wraps an arm across your thigh, and seems to tug you closer to her. Seems to _want_ that.

The edges of what she once called a lonely and empty void – that aching feeling that stretches from your chest to the tips of your fingers and toes that is only silenced by the cold ice of your burning rage – grow raw within her, that _yearning_ for something warmed by the touch of someone who wants…but _not you_.

You slip beneath her grasp and you stand and you walk.

This, at least, is familiar. The bed is not familiar. The woman is not familiar. The halls are not familiar. But you walk them anyway. You find yourself in the kitchen – you haven’t been in a kitchen in…you don’t know how long, but it must have been a very long time – and you take a knife from the drawer where they keep their utensils and you take an apple from the bowl of fruit on the counter and you slice it with the knife and bring the slice to your lips and this, too, feels very familiar. As though you have done all of this before. You blink, and you stare at the knife, and you blink again, and you hop onto the counter, curl your toes around its edge, and lean forward, slice another bit of the apple off, and bring the knife to your lips.

It tastes sweeter than the fruit on the jungle path, the ones just outside of that rusty, locked gate.

You hear ~~your~~ name, and you look up. The woman who was in ~~your~~ bed stands just in the hallway, staring at you, and when you meet her eyes, even at a distance, her head tilts to one side.

“What’re you doing, Poppins?”

You blink again, and you look at the knife and the apple again, and you slice off another slice of the apple and bring it to your lips before slicing off another and holding the knife out.

She stares at you.

“Dani?”

The dream pauses.

She blinks.

This dress – a silk and lace affair in the deepest of emerald greens with a thick ebony hem and stitching of the same throughout – is held between her hands. She hasn’t brought it up against her skin yet. It’s still just in front of her, barely out of the chest. Her thumb brushes along the fabric, head tilting to one side as she examines it.

The doorknob rustles, and she turns to it, eyes narrowing. That never happens. That’s _new_. There shouldn’t be anything new.

Her hands tighten on the fabric. The doorknob rustles again, and she can hear it this time, the voice on the other side of the doorknob shouting her name. “ _Dani!”_ At least, she _thinks_ it’s a shout. It sounds like it _must_ be a shout, except that the door, thick as it is, muffles the sound so much that it sounds like an astonished whisper.

She blinks again, and she steps toward the door, the dress discarded _somewhere_ – she doesn’t know if it made its way back to the chest or if she flung it back on the bed – it _certainly_ isn’t on the floor; she wouldn’t have dropped something as exquisite or beautiful as that on the _floor_ – and she reaches for the doorknob—

—only for her fingers to flinch backward as the door finally opens.

A woman she has never seen before strides through the door. Her hair is long and dark and curled and falls to her waist, or near it, and the nightgown that Dani has worn every time she has had this dream is mimicked on that other woman, only it fits her far better than it has ever fit Dani, who it drapes like a sheet, and it doesn’t have the mud or dirt or _whatever_ it is that stains the edges of Dani’s nightgown.

A nightgown that, on second look, she is no longer wearing.

The woman grabs Dani’s wrist and pushes her past her, through the door, and for the briefest of moments, looking back, Dani catches a glimpse of the woman’s face. She doesn’t know why she thinks she won’t see features, doesn’t know why she thinks she’ll see the lady of the lake, and in fact sees something specific and halting and brilliantly bright and harrowing, but it is only a second, the briefest of seconds, and then she is through the door, and it is shutting behind her, and she is—

* * *

Jamie takes a bite off of the knife in her hands, and her lips have barely left the knife before Dani startles. The knife clatters as it drops from her hand to the floor, and the apple bounces with a thudding sound until it, finally, rolls under their sofa.

“Wh-wh-wh-what’s going on?”

Dani scoots back on the counter, scoots away from Jamie, scoots and grabs the edge with her hands so tight that her knuckles turn white. She can't breathe. No, she _can_ breathe, she _is breathing_ , but her throat is tight, and the breath is coming quick and fast, and she stares at Jamie, who is staring back at her, wordless.

That is the worst of it all, that Jamie is staring at her and saying nothing. She has always had something to say in situations like this. _Always._ And this time, _this time_ , she is horribly silent.

It takes far longer than Dani likes, but Jamie says, finally, “I don’t think you were sleepwalking, Poppins.”

“I-I-I don’t think I was either.” Dani brushes her hands through her hair with so much nervous energy that Jamie reaches over and grabs them, holds them still in her own, warm ones. “I was dreaming. That dream I told you, the one I keep having, but I wasn’t done, _I wasn’t done_ , and I—” She shakes her head and meets Jamie’s eyes. “What was I doing? Or not…not _me_ , but in here, what was I…with the…with the apple and the knife, what was I…?” Her eyes search Jamie’s.

“Easier to show you.” Jamie moves from her spot on the counter, picks up the dropped knife and scrounges about under the sofa for the displaced apple, and then returns to the counter. She sits on it, hunched over, one knee pulled up against her chest, her toes curled on the edge of the counter, the apple in one hand and the knife in the other. She slices off a bit of the apple with the knife and then takes the slice in her mouth.

Dani reaches over and whaps her arm. “Don’t eat that! It was under the couch! That’s disgusting!”

Jamie coughs and splutters, spitting the piece of apple out into her open hand. “That’s what _you_ were doing.”

“I wasn’t eating an apple off of the floor!”

“How do you know that’s not what you were doing?” Jamie drops the knife into the sink behind them and tosses the apple back and forth between her hands. She doesn’t look at Dani, and it’s a moment – a long moment – before either of them speak. Jamie is the one to eventually break the silence. “You know what I would like to try?”

“Hm?” Dani reaches for the back of her neck and presses her fingertips gently against it, that same spot that she keeps needing to soothe. Her head tilts to the side. She’s tired. So tired. Why is she so tired? “What do you want to try?”

Jamie catches the apple smoothly in one hand. “Let’s plant an apple tree. We might not see it bear fruit at all,” she continues, turning to Dani, “but it’d be something worth trying. Always wanted to plant one. Bly didn’t quite suit it.”

Something sits in the back of Dani’s mind, something just out of reach. She had been dreaming before all of this, and the dream had changed. But even the few minutes of talking have changed it, even now it is beginning to fade. Dani nods at Jamie’s suggestion. “Think the weather here is better?” She rubs at her wrist and winces in pain.

“Think it’s a spot better than where we were.” Jamie catches the wince and holds the apple still in one hand. “Something wrong?”

“No.” Dani looks at her wrist, finds mottled bruising starting to purple the delicate skin along the inside of it. Her head tilts to one side. “I must have banged my wrist earlier. Or yesterday. Or….” She shakes her head. It isn’t the right time to be awake. She rubs one hand along Jamie’s back. “Let’s go back to bed,” she says, her voice soft, lips curved into a soft smile.

The dream has already come once. It won’t come again.


	5. Chapter 5

You stand and stare at the gate and its rusted lock, your head tilted ever so slightly to one side, dark hair brushing against your white nightgown. The edges of your gown are dark with the mud of walking the path what feels like day after day, and there are new tears in the fabric from the branches of the jungle trees, which catch in it as you walk past, from climbing over the gate and letting its newly made barbed wire slice against your ankles. Sometimes, you have brushed your fingers against your skin after the tear and brought them away bloodless, although you are certain the wire has broken the skin.

The rusted gate stares back at you, beckoning. You haven’t felt the need to climb over it in quite some time. You’ve had your fill of the forbidden fruit on the other side, and you ache for something to which you still cannot put a name. Certainly, that new barbed wire doesn’t help things either, but since it does not hurt you as much as one might imagine, it isn’t quite as much of a deterrent.

Yet still you are learning new things all the time. You have found a creek through the jungle that brings sweet, clear water, and you drink from it when you are thirsty. Sometimes, you look at your reflection in the water – that is how you learned that your hair is dark and full of curls, that is how you know that your nightgown is stained with mud and dirt. The lack of features on your face no longer startles you when you see it. In fact, sometimes when you stare, you think you can make out bits of how you might look. Not because you remember it, but because something in you _knows_.

Your nose has grown sharper. The skin covering your eyes has grown thinner. Your eyelashes, dark as your hair, have begun to peek through. If you stay here long enough, you might reclaim a real appearance of some sort. Something significant.

The rusted gate stares at you, tempting you, but you remember the last time you rustled its lock – when you opened the door, took the girl’s hand, and thrust her from the room that you sometimes share. You are not ready to be caught out again.

You turn and go back to the room that is your own, the room where the girl is confined just as surely as you were before she mentioned the jungle, the room where she waits when you tuck her away and wander in a body that isn’t your own. Sometimes, new things appear there. You haven’t checked today. There are things you hope for but still cannot name; there are things you hope for and _can_ name – cup, bowl, knife.

_Clothes._

There are clothes in the chest, but those are not yours. Those belong to someone else. They are meant for someone else. You cannot remember who. The name is on the tip of your tongue, and you think perhaps you will claim that before you claim your own.

You had a name once. Everyone has a name.

The shape of where your eyes would be narrows, and you decide to wander on the other side of the gate again. Not to take or to tuck away, but to learn. There is so much more you can learn on the other side of the gate.

* * *

Dani knows better than to get what some would call a legitimate job. As much as she wants to get back into teaching again, to pass what is needed to be able to teach here in Vermont, where they have landed, she doesn’t think it would be fair to the kids. Even with as settled as she is, even with the infrequency of the pressure that starts at the nape of her neck and travels to the bridge of her nose, she knows that she only has each present moment. If, for some reason, the lady of the lake decides to take her over right before Christmas break, then what would happen to her kids? The school would scramble for a new teacher over the break, and a substitute would likely take her place until then.

No. That wouldn’t be fair to anyone, least of all to the kids she would want to help.

At first, Dani is comforted with not working. Then, she begins to help out at Jamie’s flower shop. It’s _theirs_ , technically, Jamie always refers to it as _theirs_ , but Dani knows that it is Jamie’s shop first and foremost. Jamie knows each of the plants by name; Dani names some of them and then is heartbroken when her favorites are bought by customers while she isn’t there. Jamie knows the best way to take care of a plant that seems to be dying; Dani just stares at it hopelessly, guessing that something is wrong and usually thinking it needs more water or more sunlight, which she has since learned is not always good – some plants, like cacti, don’t do well with a lot of water, and some plants, like certain ferns or ivy, don’t do well with a lot of sun. Jamie knows _all_ of this; Dani is just drowning under all of the plant knowledge that she doesn’t have.

…drowning is a bad word. She isn’t drowning. She’s _never_ drowning. She’s—

—curled up on one corner of the sofa with that old, oft-read Shakespeare play, _Romeo and Juliet_ , in one hand, thumb holding her place as she takes a sip of her coffee. She’s gotten better at coffee. Moderately. Jamie still won’t drink it, but then, Jamie doesn’t like coffee. She still isn’t allowed to make the tea, and that’s fine. She makes her own sweetened iced tea and drinks most of it herself. Jamie points out the American sweet tooth. She doesn’t disagree.

Thinking of this, she smiles.

The pressure starts at the back of her head. Dani presses her fingers there, but either she isn’t fast enough or her fingers aren’t cold enough because the pressure moves, taking that same route that she has grown accustomed to. She winces and tries to ignore it, tries to go back to her reading, but the words in front of her eyes seem to swim as the pressure finds the bridge of her nose.

It feels like the creature sinks under her skin, into her bones, stretches to fill the tips of her fingers and toes, skin-covered eyes hovering right behind her own, and when she moves to continue reading her play, the creature moves, too, and reads with her.

It is an unsettling feeling, but she is still present. She is not tucked away.

Dani breathes deep, and she feels like the creature within takes a shuddering, open-mouthed breath, too. She shivers, and the creature shivers with her. She draws the blanket from the back of the sofa and pulls it about herself. It doesn’t help. _Of course_ , it doesn’t help, but she tries anyway. The pressure between her eyes fades; the creature remains.

If the creature were a human being like Rebecca Jessel, then Dani might try to communicate with it – with _her_. But she has little reason to believe that the creature wants to communicate with her at all. It had ignored her attempts to free herself when it was choking her, and it had ignored her screams while it was carrying Flora away. It had ignored Henry, other than choking him near to death, and it had ignored Flora’s desperate cries to be released. It seemed less like an actual person and more like a stubborn sense of will, and Dani knows better than to try and communicate with a stubborn sense of will. It’s why she hasn’t brought up that Jamie is her girlfriend with her mother, isn’t it? _Stubborn sense of will, indeed._

But even with her mother, there are some pathways, some routes that can be taken. Dani isn’t sure there are any she can make with this creature.

Still.

She begins to talk in the silence of the house to the creature within her the way she might to someone too old to know new things, or to one of the children in her classes – although she’d never had occasion to read Shakespeare to any of them.

“Have you read this?” Dani asks, in the still silence of the house. She lifts the book with one hand, knowing that the creature can see it just as clearly as she can. “It’s one of Shakespeare’s plays. You…probably _haven’t_ read it. I’m not sure he was alive in your time. I’m not sure what time you’re from. Um.” She presses her lips together and tries again. “It’s about two people from opposing families who fall in love – Romeo and Juliet.” She tucks some of the hair that has pulled itself out of her ponytail behind one ear. “The story tells you from the beginning that it is going to be a tragedy, but as you read it, you think maybe, _maybe_ they’ll make it through and survive. But, by the end, no matter how much they try to be together, the story ends with both of them dead.”

The creature hasn’t moved. Dani thinks it is paying attention to her. That’s…that’s _something_ at least. She isn’t sure the creature has ever really listened to her before. She certainly hasn’t listened to it.

“You can read it with me, if you want.”

The offer is a small thing. Dani doesn’t really think she could deny the creature; if it wanted, the creature could stay hovering just beneath her skin until it is prepared to take her over. Maybe that’s what it is doing now. Maybe reading Shakespeare will distract it. She doubts that.

But it’s a fortunate distraction for _her_.

The creature doesn’t move, and Dani doesn’t know if that’s an acceptance or not. She hopes that it is, that this remaining isn’t something much more morbid. She hasn’t gotten very far in the book, and she turns back to the beginning, feeling the creature stretched taut beneath her skin the entire time. It never feels any better. She isn’t sure how it could.

* * *

Dani startles into awareness when their house door hard shuts. She takes a deep breath. Her fingers curl around the edges of her book, and she glances up, to the door.

Jamie walks towards where she sits on the sofa, thick boots clunking along the entrance. She takes them off just past the entryway, unlacing them and then tucking her fingers beneath the edge to push them off. “Want a bit of light, Poppins?” She reaches over, flicks a light on, and Dani winces with the sudden brightness of it. When had it gotten so dark? Jamie’s eyes graze over her. “You been reading?”

“Mm.” Dani nods, closes the book around her finger to keep her place, and holds the book aloft. “ _Romeo and Juliet_ ,” she says with a little sigh. “It’s one of my favorites.” She bites her lower lip and smiles. “Think you’d like that new version more – the musical?”

“I’ve heard of it.” Jamie curls up on the sofa next to her, resting her head in one hand, elbow propped on the back of the couch. “Wasn’t much a fan of Shakespeare, myself. Always seemed too highfalutin for someone like me.” She reaches over, tucks a strand of Dani’s hair back out of her face. “But you can tell me all about it, if you like.”

Dani shakes her head. “No. I’ve had enough of it.” She reaches across and presses a kiss to Jamie’s lips. “Let me just find a bookmark.”

Jamie’s the sort to dog ear the pages, but that seems sacrilegious to Dani. They both have their little tells. Jamie is particular about tea and plants; _Dani_ is particular about _books_. She finds one of her bookmarks – an old bit of receipt paper from a handful of them kept on the side table for just this purpose – and places it neatly in the book before noticing – before _realizing_ —

This is the end of the play.

Dani blinks twice. She doesn’t remember finishing it. Point of fact, she doesn’t remember much past the first scene with Friar Lawrence. Perhaps she dozed off. _She doesn’t remember._

And in all of that, the itching, unsettling, _stretched_ feeling of the creature stitched taut beneath her skin seems to have disappeared.

Dani isn’t sure how to feel about that.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long between chapters - I'm still trying to maintain that space of two chapters ahead and then posting when I finish the rough of that - that second chapter ahead - and I was /close/ on Saturday but didn't get through rereading/editing this one in time - and I don't really want to post new chapters of this on Sundays - SO, long story, that's why it took so long.
> 
> I think after this one, that's a little more than 10k posted, right? The rough draft so far, all chapters and etc. combined, is a little more than 20.5k - and it's not done - so that gives you a general idea of how long this thing is. The newer chapters have been longer. (I may also be more than two chapters ahead. Idk.) And one of them...I kind of want to take one of the bits I have overview and extend it into a separate chapter SO.
> 
> Anyway. All that said. I hope y'all enjoy this new chapter. I really appreciate all the kudos and comments and engagement y'all have had, and I'm sorry that I don't always answer back. I do appreciate every single one of them, so thank you.

You don’t have clothes in your room now, but you do have books.

All of them are books that you have already read – _Romeo and Juliet_ is the first of these, and it has pride of place on your shelf. It is a new custom the two of you have created together, although you are certain the blonde woman that is not you doesn’t realize she’s done it. When she dreams, _when you wake,_ you find whatever book is left sitting on her bedside table and take it with you to one of the other rooms, flick on just enough light that you can see, and curl up on one end of their – what is the word – _sofa_ – to read until such a time as you decide to be finished.

Sometimes, you allow her to come to herself still curled up there, but more often than not you take her body back to her bed, let the brunette woman wrap her arms around her waist, and then slowly return through the pathway in the jungle, over the fence with its no longer new barbed wire, and back to the room that is your very own.

Then you fill one of your new cups – one of them a dark blue and bespeckled with brilliantly cream stars – with water from the clean stream that you have found, refill your bowl with the fruit now growing on your side of the fence from the seeds you have planted, and curl up in your own bed with one of your books to continue to read.

The brilliant thing about reading is that it returns language to you – words for things that you had long ago forgotten as well as words for things that you aren’t sure what they mean. Some of them you have learned from being present with the woman whose body you share – stovetop, for instance, and gas range and _microwave_. Some of them seem to be shorthand for other things – _car_ for the electronic carriages you have often seen outside of their window because these people like to make words shorter; _fridge_ for _refrigerator_ , which is another word that you’ve had no occasion to learn before now; _doc_ for _doctor_ , which you think is ridiculous because who needs _doctor_ to be shortened?

These people are obsessed with things being fast-paced and quick, and you are so used to slow and methodical that the clash between lifestyles feels harsh. You are grateful – a new word, and a new feeling – to your host and her partner for choosing a slow, methodical lifestyle of their own, and you wait for the day when they change their mind and decide to find something much more in tune with the other people around them.

You hope they don’t change.

Hope, too, is a funny word. It’s the thing with wings, you think, although a part of you – or maybe it’s the girl on the other side of the fence – who insists that it’s the thing with _feathers_. You wonder what the difference is. The feeling isn’t a new one. You think it is the best word for the yawning ache inside of you – or for what it once was, before the rage at its never being fulfilled took over.

Hope deferred makes the heart sick,  
but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.

You remember that one, vaguely, from the church services you had been forced to go to. Her memory says it is in Proverbs*. How odd, that the two of you share that commonality – a religion that you both have, in one form or other, denied.

When you take an apple from your bowl, when you slice it with your knife and bring the knife to your lips, you think about how odd and how astonishing that is – how there are so many similarities between your host and yourself. Sometimes, you wonder if that would have always been the case, that if on remembering more of yourself, those similarities would still exist, or if they are here now only because you have been living on and within the girl herself and thus must, in same shape or form, become molded to little aspects of her.

You are not sure you want the answer.

* * *

Jamie takes Dani to a diner a few blocks from their house. It is within walking distance – they’ve found a house downtown, so _everything_ is pretty much within walking distance, and although their backyard isn’t as large as those in the suburbs, the ones Dani remembers from growing up, there is enough room for their slowly growing apple tree, as well as any other plants that Jamie chooses to add – _the point is_ that they’re within walking distance of pretty much everything they could ever need, as well as plenty of other things they _don’t_ need but might want at some point in the future. The diner is one of these; the bar a few blocks in the exact opposite direction of the diner is another. Jamie has taken her to the bar more than once since they’ve moved into their house. They had, in fact, lived there for a few months while deciding if they were going to stay in Vermont or not – well, not in the bar itself, but in an apartment just above it, similar to the flat Jamie once owned above the pub near Bly.

No matter where they go, no matter if they speak of it or not, no matter if the creature living in her mind wanders or not, Bly haunts them. It is there in the back of their minds, just on the tip of their tongues where they do not want it, and as they sit on opposite ends of their booth in the diner, it spills itself out like blood from an open wound.

“Henry called today,” Dani says, pressing the spot at the back of her neck. There isn’t any pressure there now, the creature isn’t wandering, but it has become a habit – something that she does without even thinking, simply because she has done it so often. Her fingers are cool and wet from the condensation on her glass. It’s a soft, comforting feeling. “He said the kids wanted to know if they could see us for Christmas.”

“Don’t see how that’s a bad idea.” Jamie’s fingers drum against the edge of the table, thumb along the bottom of it. One of her gardening boots brushes against Dani’s shoe, but Dani isn’t sure whether it’s intentional or not. She hopes it is. She will believe it is. “You thinking about letting them stay with us?”

Dani stares at the reflection in her glass, but at Jamie’s suggestion, her eyes widen and her head pops up. She doesn’t know why she was looking at her reflection. She looks the same as she’s always looked. “No, no, of course not.” She presses her lips together and bites her lower lip. “That wouldn’t be safe.”

Jamie gives a half nod. “Why wouldn’t that be safe, Poppins?”

“She’s walking while I sleep. I _know_ she is.” Dani crosses her arms around herself. She isn’t cold, but she might as well be. “The lady. Sometimes I fall asleep in bed with you and I wake up curled up on the couch with a book in my hand and a blanket wrapped around me.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad.”

“It’s not,” Dani agrees, voice soft, because she knows how much worse it could be. How much worse she is afraid it _will_ be, one day. “Sometimes, I think I just fell asleep there and didn’t make it to bed with you, but….but I know better.” She shakes her head with a sigh before leaning forward, pressing her fingertips to her forehead. “Anyway, I don’t think it will be safe for the kids. All of her getting up and walking around. I don’t….” She presses her lips together. “I don’t want her to do anything to them. I don’t want….” She looks up and meets Jamie’s eyes. “They can come over during the day, we can see them then, and we can have a good time with them, but they shouldn’t…. They shouldn’t _stay_ with us.”

Jamie nods in understanding. She reaches over and takes Dani’s hands in her own. “You would never let her hurt them,” she says, brushing her thumb along Dani’s fingers, “just like you’ve never let her hurt me. Fact of the matter is, I don’t think she _wants_ to hurt anyone anymore. If she’s been taking as much time as you’ve said she is, if she _really_ wanted to hurt someone, why hasn’t she hurt me?”

* * *

It’s the first moment.

You feel her freezing in her skin, and you feel her staring at you from wherever she is to wherever you are.

_You are curled up in your bed with one of your books, you will have her know,  
and you are quite comfortable sitting here and reading. You weren’t planning  
on getting out again any time soon. You have your bowl of fruits right here and  
your cup of stars right here and maybe water might seem plain to her but it is  
enough for you right now and could she please not interrupt you while you are  
reading?_

But she’s still staring at you, two blue eyes searching for you, and you realize that just as much as you might hop the gate whenever you so desire, letting it rip your gown and your ankles and your bare legs, she is just standing there, staring at you beyond the gate, beyond the path, and unable to really _see_ you, no matter how much you can feel the weight of it on your shoulders.

You don’t know why she’s looking. She hasn’t really seemed too terribly interested in you for the past several months, except to try and erect new barriers to keep you from getting out of your cell. To be fair, they haven’t exactly _worked_ , but she has tried as unsuccessfully as she can. The barbed wire had been a nice touch, painful as it had been. You won’t fault her that.

She isn’t _summoning_ you. You think, if she was, that you wouldn’t answer. This isn’t a good time.

You are not sure when a good time would be, exactly, but you know that this is not it. If you make yourself present enough in her current situation, you can hear the sounds of a public that you haven’t allowed yourself to really be part of, other than looking out on it, and you can see the brunette who loves her – another word you have learned from your reading, particularly from that first book, and a part of you wonders which of them is Romeo and which is Juliet, if either could strictly speaking be either of them – and you think _public_ is not the place for this conversation, whatever conversation it is she wants to have.

You feel her staring and you return to your book and you try to pretend that it isn’t there.

You haven’t done anything wrong.

This time.

You don’t know why she feels so upset.

Upset is a funny word.

It isn’t _angry_. It isn’t an all-consuming rage, although there may be rage  
elements to it. It isn’t sad, it isn’t frustrated, it isn’t _sick_. It can be elements of  
any or all of those. It can be frustrated. It can be a lot of things that you don’t  
have words for – not because you don’t have the words but because there  
_aren’t_ words.

You know that she is upset because there isn’t another word to call it, and it is  
such an unspecific lump all word that it sets you to feeling unsettled. You want  
a more specific word. No, you want a more specific understanding of what she  
is feeling so that you can put a word _to_ it.

Upset is a funny word and it is an _upsetting_ word and her upset upsets you by  
the sheer upsetting nature of it.

She continues to stare at you with that weight and that upset and that blank, unfocused heat of a glare, and your jaw lowers, unhinging, and you yell at her because you have no other response to make but that one.

_Back. Off._

* * *

Dani sees her reflection in the condensation of her glass shift, and her gaze moves towards it, and it is the creature, it is that great faceless _thing_ with the long black hair in waves dripping down the sides of her faceless face, mouth open and yelling at her in that low, guttural growl of a thing that she remembers hearing on Bly, and she startles and jumps back and hits the back of the booth – and it is fortunate, oh so fortunate, that the booth is padded in the way diner booths usually are – but she still feels the ache in the back of her head from hitting it too hard, and it is a different ache than the pressure that means that the creature is looming near her – it is a real, _real_ ache – and her fingers move to that spot instead of the one at the nape of her neck where there is no pressure and no presence and still she feels like she is being _watched_.

“Poppins?”

Jamie is beside her in a less than a moment, pulling her over to her. “What happened?” She tries to meet her eyes, to search them, focus moving from the one light blue eye to the dark one and then back again.

There are a lot of things Dani wants to do in that moment. But she doesn’t think about it – she flinches back, away from Jamie, away from her girlfriend, the love of her life – and it’s a mixture of things: fear of the creature living beneath her skin who she hasn’t seen, _really_ seen, not in reality, not the way she had at Bly, not _since_ Bly; fear of that creature coming forth _now_ , as though being reminded that it hadn’t hurt anyone in so long would make it want to start doing so now, with Jamie; fear of those around them because this is still America, and as much as people want to believe that money makes people listen and care, she knows better than to believe that so many of these people wouldn’t stop frequenting their shop if they knew in a more concrete manner—

It is the late eighties and there are still states where living the way they are is illegal (not here, _not here_ , they would not have _stayed_ here if they were illegal, the risk would not have been worth it, not now), but people still look at them and think of the disease that has been plaguing the country, the disease that the world is slowly but surely taking action to deal with _because it is no longer just affecting them_ , and _there are consequences_ and she is especially aware of them because she has always _had_ to be aware of them – Vermont is better than the southern states where she lived, it _is_ better, but there are years of hiding and being aware and seeing the way the world – seeing the way _your loved ones_ – react to you and people like you ­– _and of course she flinches away_ because the other reaction is _curling closer inward_ and _letting her kiss her forehead_ and _there are consequences, it is the late eighties, and there are consequences_ and they have moved here and made a life for themselves and she _cannot_ risk the consequences—

Dani meets Jamie’s eyes and takes a deep breath and the first words out of her lips are, “I’m sorry,” and Jamie nods because she understands – _of course, she understands_ – it has never needed to be a conversation because they have both known (but it _has_ been a conversation because she has taken Jamie to meet her parents and they have had to be careful there) – because it was still a miracle when Princess Diana shook the hand of an infected person, it is still a miracle that she is speaking out—

Dani tucks her head under Jamie’s chin and presses against the soft skin of her neck for the briefest of moments, pulling away just enough to meet her eyes and whisper, voice soft, “Let’s go home. Please. Let’s just go home.”

And Jamie nods, and it is a wordless thing, and maybe that is the softest thing of all, that they do not have to speak every time they need to communicate, that words – as important as they may be – are not as important or necessary within the silent space they have made and continue to make for themselves.

They go home, and the creature remains quiet, and Dani is unable to relax.

Something feels _wrong_.

She cannot put a finger on it. She doesn’t know what it is. She knows that it isn’t like what happened with Miles, but she can’t put words to it.

And perhaps that is the worst part of it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Proverbs 13:12


	7. Chapter 7

They find a place for Henry, Flora, and Miles to stay. It is easier than they thought it would be – there are houses that are open over the holidays as people go south for warmer weather or travel because they want to be with their families – and Dani and Jamie have made enough in-roads with their neighbors and customers that they are asked to housesit and given permission to allow others to stay there, provided that said others don’t break anything. It is a relief – an _easy_ relief – and when Owen hears what is happening, he decides to come up as well, because what could be better than a big Bly Manor family reunion for Christmas?

Of course, Dani’s mother has called. She wants Dani to come back for the holidays. She wants to see her daughter. Dani doesn’t want to go without Jamie, doesn’t want to explain why she _won’t_ go without Jamie, doesn’t want to add that additional complication when she could disappear without warning at any moment, and the thing is? The thing is that she knows that her mother doesn’t really mind. Eddie’s mom is still in contact, and she asks for Dani to come visit when she can – and there’s a little pressure there, not unlike the pressure that the creature puts at the back of her neck, for Dani to come spend time with the people who should have been her extended family over the holidays – but the truth of the matter is that she doesn’t want to spend her holidays with them either. Not as much as she wants to spend it with Jamie – with Flora and Miles and Owen. Henry less so, but he’d been there, too, at the end.

 _Not_ the end.

They are still alive. _She_ is still alive. And she is still here.

* * *

Halloween comes and goes, and Dani and Jamie stay inside. Jamie answers the door for the trick-or-treaters; Dani tries, but whenever she sees small children, something in the center of her chest grows warm and thrums with the same uncanny pressure that she normally gets at the back of her neck. The older children – and the adults who come with them – the ones who have decided to wear more _spooks_ than other costumes are beyond what she wants to see; there is nothing funny or entertaining about the undead when you have dealt with them personally. Even those who wear the masks of plague doctors send a shiver down her spine, as though she has seen something quite like them out of the corner of her eye some time before, although she cannot say just where or when.

(She knows it is Bly or it is the remnants of the memory of the creature within her. She _knows_ this. She knows it, but it doesn’t make things any better.)

Jamie curls up next to her on the sofa in-between the door-knocking or the doorbell-ringing, and Dani rests her head on her girlfriend’s shoulder. Every now and again, Jamie brushes her hand through Dani’s hair, presses a kiss to her forehead. It’s a simple thing, and yet it stills the pressure within her and leaves only the warmth in the center of her chest, something _comforting_ instead of somehow constraining.

The weather is growing colder. There is a gentle breeze whenever Jamie opens the door.

 ~~You~~ _She_ feels almost at peace.

It scares her.

* * *

After the intrusion in your personal space, you find that the fence with the rusted, locked gate has changed yet again. Where before, it had been a simple thing, and then, after feeding the brunette the slice of apple, one covered with barbed wire, it is now a thick stone wall – still with barbed wire at the top and still with that same rusted, locked gate keeping it closed. But even the gate has changed – where before, it was just a simple gate as might hold together the two ends of the fence with no particular thought, a gate that was only about waist high and could be jumped over easily enough, it is now a much taller wrought iron construction. The iron is twisted into the shape of flowers to which you do not yet have a name, into trees with deep roots that tangle around the bottom edge, with apples blossoming from their limbs.

But the lock holding the gate together is still just as rusted and old as the gate itself seems shiny and new. It’s a small detail that you do not understand. Why replace the gate with a newer one and not replace the lock? What is so sentimental about this one? Is it the rust? You do not know.

On the other side of the gate, you can see that the fruit trees have changed, too – no more apple, no more orange, no more plum – and have been replaced with something else, something new. There is a warm fall breeze on the other side, and it occasionally comes through the gate and brushes against your skin. Your mouth waters.

There are trees on your side of the gate now. The fruit is a little harsher, a little more bitter than it is on the other side, but it is here all the same. The stream of cool, brisk water is smaller on your side, but it is still there. You are still allowed to eat and drink, and your room is still slowly filling with books upon books upon books. It seems they have begun a sort of rotation – there isn’t room enough for all of them in your little cell – so they come as you desire. The only constant is that first one – _Romeo and Juliet_ – and a part of you wonders if you might find another Shakespearean play if you look hard enough.

The new walls on either side of the gate do not intimidate you. If you want, you will climb over them the same as you climbed the fence – a little worse for wear, perhaps, because there aren’t many places to grip or climb and because if you jump from the top you might break something (you will not break _anything_ – you do not know how you know so, but you know that this is true) – but you haven’t tried yet.

_Yet._

But even your last chest could not hold you forever, even your last chest filled with water, even your last chest was broken to allow you to wander and walk and wake as you once did, and this wall, too, will not contain you for very long, if you desire it.

You simply have not had the desire to go across again.

_Yet._

You do not like being chided like a dog with a stolen bone. If you must be a dog, you are one with a bone you have been given, being punished by the person who gave you the bone in the first place. You have done nothing wrong. They are meant to care for you. Not whatever _this_ is.

But you are willing to wait it out.

For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, it's a shorter chapter - but it feels like it's its own distinct thing from the next chapter. I thought about expanding on some of this - particularly the Halloween bit - but I like it better like this than trying to expand it. Sorry!


	8. Chapter 8

The weather outside grows ever colder. Jamie spends more and more time at the flower shop, keeping her plants warm and alive, which means that Dani spends more and more time at their house alone. It is not that she does not help out at the flower shop – she does! Often! But there are certain things that remain in Jamie’s specialty, things that it would be easier and faster for her to do herself than to try and explain them, so while Dani can – and often does – finish some small tasks, especially with the more business and monetary side of things, the bulk of the work rests on Jamie’s shoulders. Dani doesn’t like it, but there isn’t much she can do beyond what she does.

Dani has been forbidden from making coffee and tea. She’s tried to make it again – even more often than before – so that Jamie has something warm to come back to, but after the last disastrous attempt (where Jamie gave her a look and bit her tongue and pressed her lips together and turned away, pouring her mug down the drain), she accepted that maybe her hot drinks are making things worse. At least she is good at hot chocolate – which is more than appreciated in the colder weather – and where Jamie is not a great cook, Dani excels. She is nowhere near as good as Owen, but neither of them make the comparison. She is good enough. She is _decent_.

Jamie burns water. An interesting thing for a gardener, but as Jamie herself says, “You don’t have to heat water for plants!”

She doesn’t really say that, but Dani likes to pretend she does. It brings a smile to her face, and when she says it, Jamie gives her a look and then sticks her tongue out at her. Sometimes, it feels like they are children just playing at house, but other times, it feels nothing like that at all.

The pressure at the back of her head abates.

She is not sure what to do with the newfound freedom.

Something tells her that nothing good can come of this, but Dani feels better about spending time with Jamie when she doesn’t have to feel a faceless monster spreading beneath her skin as she reads Shakespeare. She feels safer – not as in _her_ safety, but as in _Jamie’s_.

She still doesn’t know why the creature never attacked her girlfriend, and she doesn’t want to risk finding out why.

* * *

The first time she has a migraine again, Dani panics.

It feels like the creature has decided to wage war on her mind, one piece at a time. She holds her head in her hands and she cries and neither of those things help in the slightest. She is too afraid to take her normal routes – to stay in the bedroom she shares with Jamie, to turn all the lights out and shut the curtains, to give herself that still, cold, dark space so that her mind can heal. But all of those things feel like a tomb, feel like _death_ , and the panic sets in even more, twisting her heart in her chest until she can’t breathe. Which is _worse_ , because she remembers the creature’s icy fingers wrapping around her neck and the struggling that had done absolutely no good because it felt like the creature didn’t even acknowledge she was there and only dropped her because she needed both hands to carry Flora. _And even then,_ Dani had struggled to breathe around the pressure tightening around her neck.

Jamie brings her a mug of steaming hot tea. “Do you want company?”

“No,” Dani says, shaking her head as she leans up against their headboard. Their curtains are ever so slightly open, the cold breeze from outside filtering through. Her head needs the cold for her to feel halfway to normal, but she shivers every time the breeze hits any other patch of her skin. “I’ll be okay. This is just—” Her stomach lurches with the nausea that her migraines bring, and she shuts her lips tight. She won’t be sick. She knows she won’t be sick. She only _feels_ as though she will. “It’s a migraine. I’ll be okay.” She smiles up at the love of her life, and she feels calmer, although she can’t say why.

Jamie brushes her fingers along her forehead, sweeping her hair back just long enough to place a kiss on her forehead. “If it gets bad,” she says, eyes searching Dani’s, “if it gets worse, call the shop. I’ll answer.”

“Yeah.” Dani nods. “I will. _I will._ ”

“And if you need them,” Jamie places an aspirin bottle next to the mug of tea. “I know you don’t like them, know you don’t want them. But if you _need_ them.”

Then Jamie is gone and Dani is alone in that room with little light and little air and the panic sets in. She closes her eyes and tries to rest – but she is afraid to rest, afraid that the creature will tuck her away and get up and wander the way she was only a month ago, when she would wake on the couch with no warning. She looks at the aspirin bottle that Jamie left, and she shivers – although whether that’s from the cold breeze brushing against her skin or from other reasons she cannot tell.

The pressure builds, spreading in orbit from the front of her skull to the back, and she presses her fingers to the same spot she always does, hoping the cold will alleviate some of the pain.

It doesn’t.

It never does.

* * *

You stand atop the wall, the edge of your nightgown blowing about your bare feet, a frigid breeze pushing it back, pushing your hair from your face and tangling it in the barbed wire. You rip what you can away from it, _out_ of it, and it doesn’t sting nearly as much as you might have thought. You tuck your hair back in a braid – you know this now where you didn’t before, not from your reading but from seeing the blonde do it with her own hair – and your own longer, darker locks curve into the pattern easily enough. Much more easily than her lighter ones do, almost as though your hair remembers it better.

Sometimes, you think the physical body remembers things much better than the human mind does. Even though you might forget where they came from, your body carries scars, your hair carries waves, and your eyes—

They are slowly but surely coming into place. The skin covering them grows thinner every day. At least, you _assume_ every day. It is hard to exactly keep track of the time where you are. Time doesn’t seem to follow an exact pattern here. Instead, the light/dark cycle seems to follow something else entirely. Moods, perhaps, or your expectations.

You look down on the frost-covered ground below you, and you jump.

The cold doesn’t bother you – how can it, when you are a corpse made cold by your own death? – but you can see how it has torn the trees once growing on either side of the path. It confuses you, however. You would not have made this trek at all, if not for the dark ashen soot clogging up the steam from which you took your water. You can accept a wall. You can accept barbed wire. You can even accept a locked gate. You _will not_ accept this destruction to the water stream. Not after it took so long for it to appear on your side of the gate in the first place.

There is rage within you. Of course, there is. When she created the path from your room into the jungle, the one that leads to the rusty, locked gate, she described you with three words: empty, lonely, _rage_. In fact, the one she is most afraid of is the one that has laid the lowest since you have been here. You did not have the words to explain why that was at the time, but now you do, if she would ever deign to ask, and in the lack, the rage bubbles ever hotter. You do not poke at the coals of that fire, but she does, unknowingly.

You look at the hazy sky overhead, and you follow the smoke through the jungle, follow the scent of fire, follow the trail to the stream where you first found it, where the ash and soot is even worse than it is further down on your side of the gate. (You do not know where the stream ends. You haven’t thought to look. You’re not sure it _does_ end. Perhaps it loops in on itself. For some reason, you do not think she would appreciate knowing that.)

Finally, you see it. The slightest bits of fire and flame, deep in the jungle, so far that it is almost the farthest you have traveled. And the closer you get to it, the more flame you see.

Your eyes – such that they are – narrow. Such inflammation. Why would _anyone_ do this to themselves?

There is no hypocrisy in your question. You do not consider what you have done to yourself. How could you? First, you would have to remember it. And a part of you believes – _truly believes_ – that what happened to you, whatever it was, was not your fault. In fact, you are almost certain that is where the rage comes from. You just cannot remember _why_.

You do not remember how to stop a fire. Or – more to the point – you remember enough to remember that you pour _water_ over a fire, even though you do not remember having done so before – but you do not remember or, rightly, _know_ how to put a fire out in a frozen jungle. You do not know how one would even _start_.

But ice and snow is just another form of water. Heaped on the fire, it should melt and put it out. That stood to reason.

You take a deep breath, glare as much as you can towards _her_ , wherever she is, and start putting out the fire. Who else would have started it? Who else would want to destroy the water you don’t really need, being dead, but at least _want_?

The rage bubbles inside of you like another fire, and covering it with snow does not help the way it does with this.

* * *

Dani cries out in pain, only to find the cry suddenly cut off in the back of her throat. The aforementioned pain – harsh, sharp, on the left of her head – has just as suddenly, and without any apparent reason, begun to rapidly, rapidly, _rapidly_ recede. She breathes easy. The panic still rests in the center of her chest, but it, too, feels to be quieting. As the pain subsides, she can feel that pressure, the one that meant the creature is nearer, spreading from the same spot the pain once was, and wherever the pressure touches, the pain recedes, disappears, replaced by a cool, gentle calm.

She blinks.

Something is wrong.

 _Something is_ wrong.

But she doesn’t know what it is.

The pain fades away into nothing, leaving only the pressure in its place. Dani feels as though she should say something to the creature, but she isn’t sure what. She doesn’t believe that the creature actually _helped_ her. Everything she knows about it suggests that it would only _hurt_ her, that if it is somewhere the migraine and the pain is, then it is the one _causing_ it, and if the migraine disappears as it leaves, then that only serves to prove her point.

And yet.

Dani takes a deep breath, presses her cool fingers to that spot on the back of her neck, and almost feels the creature’s frustration with her – the smallest bit of that unending rage she once noticed, only now directed towards her _personally_. She sits upright, turning on the bed so that her bare feet brush against the hardwood floor, cool from the breeze flowing through the window, and moves to the same, to shut it, because now that the pain is gone, she feels only _frigid_ from its touch.

The window shuts closed, and her reflection is not her own.

Dani jumps backward, but the faceless creature that is her reflection doesn’t move. Instead, it seems to stare at her with those eyes covered over, blinded with skin. There is no _hatred_ there. Only that hot frustration radiating outward. She takes a deep breath to steady herself, and when she raises her hand, the creature does as well. She reaches forward as though to touch the windowpane in the same manner that she often did when she was shut up in that little room in her dream.

She blinks.

Her hand touches the windowpane.

The creature has vanished.

Dani takes another deep breath. This is perhaps the sort of thing that Jamie would want her to call about, but she cannot bring herself to do it. She is…not _fine_ , she can’t be fine, she isn’t sure if she will ever be fine ever again, but she’s as close as she thinks she _can_ be right now. There’s no need to pull Jamie away from her work.

Still, loneliness crawls up, taking the spot in her chest just next to the subsided panic. Her lips press together. She won’t call Jamie away from her work, but she _will_ go to her. Right now.

She just doesn’t want to be alone.


	9. Chapter 9

December comes, and with it comes snow.

It is not the first snow that Dani has ever seen _technically_ , but it is the first time she has been around snow that lingers and stays for longer than a few hours. In the south, there had been moments of _occasional_ snow, and there were ice storms that were so bad they shut off the electricity and had to eat as much of the food in the refrigerator as they could before hiking over to a hotel that _had_ electricity and could keep them warm (and then, once the nearby church got electricity, to _it_ because that was far cheaper than staying at a hotel) – but that was _nothing_ like what is happening in Vermont.

The first time it stays, Dani stares out the window, biting at her thumbnail, and Jamie comes up behind her, wrapping a hand around her waist, and rests her chin on her shoulder. “You wanna build a snowman?”

They cannot know that in decades this phrase will become something else. For them, it isn’t.

Dani turns in Jamie’s grip so that their noses just touch and gives her a warm smile. “Yeah,” she says and gently presses a kiss to Jamie’s lips. “Yeah, I do.”

* * *

Jamie prepares the apple tree in their backyard for the winter months. She adds a thin layer of mulch around the base of the tree, which Dani could have guessed might help, but she also paints the side of the trunk facing the sun with a diluted latex paint. Apparently trees can get sunburn from the reflections of the sun on the snow. Dani would _never_ have guessed that was possible. And every day that they wake up with new snow, Jamie takes great care to go outside and brush it from as many of the tree’s branches as she can reach, so that it doesn’t grow so heavy they snap under the weight.

The flower shop, too, has a different role during the holiday season. It still has flowers, albeit different ones, but it also has holly, mistletoe, and a few of the smaller live trees. Jamie holds a certain level of disdain for the normal practice of Christmas trees – chopping them down just to have something pretty sitting in the house for a month or so before casting it out to be discarded. She has less problem with the few people who take their dead tree and turn it into lumber for their fireplace – or have a bonfire out in the back, provided the snow is thick enough to keep the fire from leaping to any of the nearby houses – but she has decided to refuse the practice of selling live trees in that manner. Hers are all smaller trees in little pots of their own, with the intent that they are watered enough to live throughout the Christmas season and then taken somewhere nearby to be planted once the season is over, instead of just being thrown out. In fact, she has set up a retrieval program, if her customers sign up for it, so that she can take the trees to plant elsewhere once they are done with them.

It is a lot of work. More work than Dani would have done if the flower shop were hers alone – but then, if Dani _was_ alone, she wouldn’t be running a flower shop. She most likely wouldn’t even be working in one. Her heart would be too sore from not being with Jamie anymore, and flower shops would only remind her of what she lost as a result of…well, of _everything_.

Fortunately, she hasn’t had to deal with that. She doesn’t believe that she will.

But the flower shop shuts down a few days before the holidays officially start. Jamie goes daily to check on her plants – through the back door so as to avoid customers who might otherwise invade and demand her attention, not that they’ve had anyone do so yet – but then the time is spent preparing their house, and the one they are sitting, for the arrival of Miles, Flora, Henry, and Owen. It doesn’t take long to do any of that, though, and then – _then_ – they are here.

Dani is excited and anxious and afraid and all of those things at once.

But the excitement is greater than the anxiety.

Almost.

* * *

You finish _Romeo and Juliet_ for what feels like the thousandth time, and you lay back on your bed, and you look at the ceiling, and you sigh. Your fingers interlace behind your head. You take a deep breath. It isn’t the worst thing to admit, but you are bored.

But it isn’t a familiar bored – your life, and your death, such as it is, have both been almost ritualistic habitual actions, done over and over again almost without end (although they have seem to have ended now, only to be replaced with this one). The difference is that, in your death, in your time on Bly, you _forgot_ so much. It hadn’t seemed repetitive. You hadn’t even known it _was_ repetitive, had only continued the motions in search for something only to completely forget again between each walk.

You do not remember decades – perhaps centuries – of the motion, but your body aches with the constant movement. It is grateful for the time you have spent curled up, reading, in your bed, being still.

The main difference between here and Bly is that forgetfulness. You are _aware_ of the time passing here, you are _aware_ of reading and rereading the same books over and over again, and you are _aware_ of the time you spend in your little cell of a room. And that _being aware_ of things happening over and over again incites _boredom_.

You are tired of this room. You are tired of the same books. You are tired of feeling like your wanderings are pointless.

Most importantly, you are tired of being alone.

No matter how much you have walked through the jungle on your side of the gate, you have found no one else. No _thing_ else – one would imagine in a jungle there would be other animals: birds, insects, large prowling cats, venomous snakes, frogs, _something else living that you could interact with_.

But no. There is nothing. No animal, no insect, no reptile, no bird. No fish in the again clear stream flowing from her side of the gate to yours. You are truly and completely alone here.

You haven’t done as much exploration on the other side of the gate as you have here, instead following the path so that you can see the world through eyes that are not your own, but you are tempted to explore there just as thoroughly as you have here. You are bored, and you are lonely – and she described you as _empty_ and _lonely_ , so she should have known better than to leave you so completely alone.

When she called to you, your expectations were not ones you could put words to, but you can put words to them now. You expected more than _this_. More than to be treated like a beast in its cage, to have constant wards brought up against your very existence. Even animals in zoos are treated better than this.

And so the rage continues to bubble within you, and you climb the wall again. Not because there is ash in your water or the heady scent of fire smoke in the air, but because you believe it is time to make your presence known again. If your captor wishes to treat you like a predatory animal, then perhaps it is time to go on the prowl.

* * *

Dani feels the pressure at the nape of her neck, and her eyes widen as she presses her fingers to the spot. It doesn’t help. It hasn’t helped in so long, and yet she still does the same motion anyway. It once helped. There is always the possibility—

“Something wrong, Poppins?” Jamie asks, and Owen stops his stirring at the stovetop, turning to face them both. The question ends the cheerful, easy camaraderie that had fallen between them, and the air grows tense. Jamie steps over to her, away from Owen, where she has been standing to try and understand what he’s been doing. Dani suspects this will not help Jamie’s cooking in much the same way that no matter how much she watches Jamie make tea, hers never gets any better.

Dani presses her lips together. “She’s moving again,” she says, voice soft, and her eyes meet Owen’s briefly. They haven’t been together much since everything happened, and this isn’t the sort of thing that you can explain over a phone call, if you explain it at all. Phone calls from where he has been – London, Paris, the other ends of the globe – are so expensive that they don’t call, and while he sends them postcards, they often don’t know where he will land to always be able to answer him back. Half of the replies they have sent are returned to them without his having gotten them, but it’s better than nothing.

Owen’s wanderlust is worse than theirs was. They had each other to settle down with; he has no one.

Jamie will be like him, too, eventually, Dani knows. She will be stolen by Bly Manor just as much as Hannah Grose was. But Jamie at least gets the days, weeks, months, _years_ between now and then. Owen was left with _nothing_. Nothing but them and his memories.

Owen nods once. “Of course, she is,” he says, moustache twitching once. “She heard friendly people, and she smelled good food. That would wake anyone up.” He lifts his spoon from one of the many pots on the stove and holds it out to her. “Here. Taste.”

Dani doesn’t know if he is talking to her or _her_ , but she leans forward and takes a bit from the spoon either way.

* * *

You do not always taste what she does. In fact, it is _very rare_ that you do.

And yet.

You do not taste _this_ either. You do not smell it through her nostrils the same way that you cannot taste it on her tongue. Not like this. Not without tucking her away entirely, and that is not your intent. You know that will only lead to thicker, higher walls and a moat and thick, sharpened poles where the barbed wire is now – and while, yes, you could still get around all of those things, you feel as though you should not have to do so.

You do not taste what he is offering and you cannot smell it and yet because a part of her is not sure whether the offer is to you or not, when she takes a taste of it, some appears in a bowl near to you, readymade with a spoon resting just inside. It is a distraction, perhaps, and if it is, it works well enough – you turn from her eyes to the bowl next to you. Instead of continuing to stretch yourself beneath her skin, you pull yourself to yourself – keep yourself _with_ yourself – and curl up just behind her eyes with your own bowl of soup to watch.

* * *

Dani winces and pinches the bridge of her nose.

“That bad, huh?”

“No, no, it’s good, it’s—” Dani shakes her head, steps back, and presses so hard on the bridge of her nose that she thinks she might get a nosebleed. The pressure doesn’t _move_ , so she knows that the creature is still there, watching them, but it’s _softer_ somehow. Less evident. As though the creature is, in some way, shape, or form, content. She has no idea why. “Was that for her?” she asks, nodding to the spoon.

Owen meets her eyes – and she knows, somehow, that he is trying to meet those of the creature within her, too. “It was for whoever wanted it.”

Dani nods as he turns back to the pot, stirring again. Jamie glances over to her, and Dani shrugs once. “It’s okay,” she whispers, offering her a little smile of her own. “She’s…still _there_ , but she’s…. I don’t know.” She presses her fingers back at the nape of her neck, closing her eyes and letting out a little breath at the cold.

“Hannah used to do that, too, you know,” Owen says, and Dani’s eyes snap open. She stares at him, searching his eyes, and he nods toward her. “Hand on the back of her neck. She did it a lot over those last few weeks you were with us. I think,” and here he clears his throat, trying to bring himself to say it, and finally forces it to come out, “I think it was because of the way she landed. Her neck snapped when her head hit the…the rock.” He presses his lips together and turns back to the stovetop.

Dani’s eyes widen. “I’m not _dead_ , Owen,” she says, and it’s immediate, it’s saying it to herself as much as she’s saying it to him, although she doesn’t know why she needs to say it. Of course she isn’t dead. She can’t be. _She can’t be._

“I don’t think you are,” he says, and the words feel warm and calming. “It’s just…something she used to do.”

Jamie reaches over and rubs her hand along Dani’s back. “It’s alright, Poppins. He didn’t mean—”

“I know what he didn’t mean.” Dani swallows and nods to herself, but when she glances back to Owen, she sees that reflection _that is not hers_ in the metal of one of the pots. This time, she doesn’t jump back – it’s easier when she doesn’t, and while she has yet to become accustomed to it, there’s something familiar in when it happens. She looks at the creature’s featureless face, and she takes a deep breath, and she nods. “I’m sorry.” She steps forward and rests her chin on Owen’s shoulder. It’s familiar, it’s _warm_ , and it’s almost like having the brother she never had.

No matter how much Eddie’s mom had said that she was just as much a part of their family as Eddie was, Dani has never been able to really see his brothers as her own. They were there, sure, and in those last few days after he died, they stared at her like she was crazy. _Everyone_ had – she’d been jumping at mirrors (almost like she is now, although she doesn’t like to think about the comparison) – and they hadn’t…. Whatever comfort having siblings should have had after Eddie’s death, they didn’t offer it.

Siblings, Dani likes to think, would have supported her when it came to being with Jamie. A part of her says that she could maybe tell them, but she knows better than to try. They aren’t really her brothers. They aren’t really her family.

Owen, here, with her, and Jamie, who hasn’t left her since Bly – _these_ are her family. Odd that they should mean more to her than the people she knew her entire life before meeting them, but it’s true. It is completely true.

“It’s okay.” Owen turns just enough that his moustache brushes against her cheek, and Dani laughs, stepping back so that she can brush the tickle away with her fingers. “I’m sorry, too.” When he turns, it’s with the patient smile she knows is why Hannah fell in love with him, why any girl would be lucky to have him if he’d allow himself to be had (and she knows he never will again, the same as Jamie won’t after her – Jamie has never said it, but she has never needed to. Dani knows. _Dani knows_ ). He waves her back with one hand. “Food’s almost done. It _did_ taste good, didn’t it?”

When Dani nods, she feels the creature nodding with her. It isn’t a pleasant feeling – it isn’t a pleasant feeling at all – but it isn’t as horrible as it normally is. The creature’s nod is slower, so it isn’t in sync with hers, and _that_ feels weird in and of itself, but there’s also this expectation – something that tells her she should say something to Owen.

She doesn’t want to, but she does anyway. “I think….” She presses her fingers to that spot at the base of her neck again and winces before swallowing once. “I think she likes it, too.”

Jamie’s eyes widen – she can see them out of the corner of her eyes – but Owen nods in understanding. He meets her eyes again, but she feels as though he is looking through her, beyond her, _into_ her. “Thank you,” he says, but she knows that he is saying it not to her but to _her_.

Her eyes flick to the side of the pot again, and although Dani isn’t smiling, she can see the features on the creature’s face lift as though she is attempting to do so, as though _she_ is attempting to smile. Dani nods once. “I think she likes you.”

“I hope she does,” Owen says, turning back to his pot. “For all of the horrible things she may have done, for all of the horrible things she tried and did not succeed, she kept Hannah around longer. She gave me more time with her. I’m grateful for that.”

“She’ll take Dani away from me,” Jamie says, staring at him pointblank, her voice firm steel. “I can’t be grateful for that.” She steps forward, one hand clenching into a fist. “She tried to _kill_ her. Dani wakes up sometimes in weird places and doesn’t know how she got there, she looks and sees her reflection, she feels her moving about in her skull, and _I cannot be grateful for—_ ”

* * *

You finish the bowl. You ache for more, and it refills. You finish the bowl again.

You consider, and you think perhaps it is not your place.

They are arguing over you.

You push forward, and you tuck her away, and you put her in that cell that is a room of your own, full of new bookshelves covered with books, with the bowl of fruit readymade, with cups should she want to make her way to the cool stream of water to get herself a drink, and you will the bowl of whatever he has been making to her and hope that maybe it gets there.

If not, that is not your fault. You would not have stepped forward if you did not think it was important.

They argue and you look at the two of them and your head tilts ever so slightly to one side.

You haven’t learned to speak yet. You are sure, if you tried, that you _could_ , if you wanted, but you do not want to speak yet. You could just as easily unhinge her jaw in that low, guttural yell that you have, but you have a feeling that would not go over well. They would not appreciate that.

You walk to the living room, and you hear the brunette questioning you – questioning _her_ – but you ignore them both, looking for a book and a pen. The pen feels weird in your – _her_ – hand. It has been….

You do not know how long it has been since you have held a writing utensil, and you certainly have not held one quite like this.

You are not sure how you will write with it, but you can at least underline words.

_Romeo and Juliet_ waits for you.

* * *

Dani blinks and stares and she is sitting on the couch with a book open in her hands and both Jamie and Owen staring at her. “What?” she asks, glancing from one to the other of them. “What?”

Jamie points, wordless, to the words underlined therein.

Dani looks.

_Here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes  
This vault a feasting presence full of light.  
  
Death, that hath suck’d the honey of thy breath,  
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty:  
Thou art not conquer’d; beauty’s ensign yet  
Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,  
And death’s pale flag is not advanced there._

Dani blinks a couple of times and looks up. “Did I underline this?”

“I don’t think you did,” Owen replies.

Dani takes a deep breath and glances over to Jamie. “What happened?”

“You—” Jamie presses her lips together. “ _She_ came in here, and _she_ underlined those.” She takes a deep breath and meets Dani’s eyes. “You know I don’t Shakespeare. What does it mean?”

Dani glances down and reads the words again, brushing her fingers along them. “I…I think it means to quit assuming that I’m dead.”


	10. Chapter 10

The words linger in Dani’s mind far longer than she wants them to, far longer than she thinks they linger with the others. No, that isn’t true – if _Jamie_ had a ghost within her who had communicated such words, she would be thinking them over, too. And Owen….

Well, Dani isn’t sure about Owen. As much as she loves him – and she _does_ love him, like a brother – she isn’t sure how comfortable she is with him trying to communicate with the creature within her. It’s like he’s trying to make nice with a bear while it is carrying another person’s face ripped between its teeth. But, then, even animals tend only to attack people when they feel threatened. She has not threatened the creature. And yet it did, once, attack her – thus the creature, being human, must act under different ideas than even a predatory animal – for it is only humans who hunt for sport. Not that she believes the creature was – or even _is_ – hunting her.

It is all so complicated.

But she knows the lines, knows the reference, knows the double meaning – Romeo, believing Juliet to be dead, and killing himself to be with her; Juliet, still alive even while Romeo believes she is dead, unable to do anything about it; Romeo, describing Juliet and all of the ways she is still alive but believing them things that will be soon tarnished by her death.

Romeo speaks of Juliet’s beauty. That doesn’t sit well with Dani. She doesn’t want to think of the creature speaking of her _beauty_. It makes her uncomfortable.

_Her beauty makes this vault a feasting presence full of light._

Dani thinks of it and shivers. _Feasting._ What does _feasting_ mean? Is the creature _feasting_ on _her_?

She can’t think of it right now. When Henry and the kids have left, maybe, but not while they’re here. She can’t think about the inherent dangers of housing that creature while they are here, cannot even _speak_ of her, because she is beginning to feel that so doing is only drawing its attention to what is happening in the world outside of her cage.

Dani doesn’t like thinking of herself as a cage, but that _is_ what she is, isn’t it?

A cage for a creature that wants to _feast_ on her.

Dani shivers and pushes it out of her mind as much as she can.

* * *

You should have expected this, you think, standing at the edge of the path on your side of the gate. You should have _expected_ this. The fact that you didn’t only speaks to your naïveté. A part of you believes that you have never considered yourself to be naïve, that you have believed the word applied to someone else you once might have known. It feels, sometimes, as though you are regaining memories, but that should not be possible. Living here—

She cannot give you back what you have forgotten, what has faded. You remember things that are familiar. That is all.

Your path no longer leads to the locked, rusted gate.

When you woke, you found that the stream which once bubbled merrily near your room had dried up as though it had never been there to begin with. No matter. You could cross the gate to the original source. It would be a _pain_ , and you would have a hard time carrying any of it back with you – truly, the girl is doing herself more of a _disservice_ than an actual _service_ , because destroying your source only meant you would cross the gate more often into _her_ territory – and then you had come to the end of your path and had to stop.

The stream isn’t truly gone, only grown and diverted to make a large moat between your path and the gate. And, of course, the gate has grown the way you expected it might – thicker, stone, steel, with its barbed wire now weaving through pikes crisscrossed at the very top. Intimidating to someone who isn’t already dead. Merely _frustrating_ to someone like you.

It is as though she has forgotten that you lay beneath the waves in the center of a lake for _decades_ without it bothering you in the slightest. A moat is just _cute_.

* * *

Dani feels the creature start at the nape of her neck, and her eyes widen. She presses her fingers at the spot and turns to meet Jamie’s eyes, unable to stop the expression of panic crossing her features. The creature moves up her head, down her forehead, and just as Dani moves to pinch the bridge of her nose in a last attempt at doing something that she knows – she knows, _she knows_ – won’t work, Flora comes to her, takes her hands in her own smaller ones, and gestures for her to draw nearer to her level. Dani kneels to her, heart pounding, because the creature cannot – _cannot_ – tuck her away right now. She won’t let it. She doesn’t exactly know how she will _stop_ it, because she hasn’t been able to stop it before, but she knows that she will _try_. She has to. _She has to._

Flora taps her finger on Dani’s forehead, just between her eyes, just where it becomes the slope of her nose. “You look afraid,” she says, her voice still as small as it had been the year before, and there’s a hint of childlike cheer to it that has usually been comforting before when it wasn’t somewhat unsettling.

Never creepy. Dani had never considered Flora to be creepy.

“Is it her?” Flora asks, meeting Dani’s eyes and searching them. “Is it the lady?”

Dani presses her lips together because she doesn’t want to admit it – not to the children, not right now – and her gaze flicks to Jamie once before she nods once. “She likes to wander,” Dani says in the smallest of whispers, hoping that Henry does not hear her, is not listening in on their conversation. “But don’t worry. I won’t let her hurt you.”

“Of course, you won’t.” Flora smiles and beckons to Miles. “We had a present for you, but I think I know something better that can help."

“Something better?” Dani echoes, head tilting ever so slightly to one side. “What do you mean?”

“When we first moved to Bly, when our parents were still alive, I saw my first ghost,” Flora confides, as matter of fact as she can be. “His face was faded almost like your lady’s, and I was quite terrified of him. I was perfectly _horrid_ to him, running away from him. But Uncle Henry told me,” and here she pauses for the slightest of moments, turning towards her uncle and giving him a slight smile, “that _he_ used to see an imaginary friend at Bly, too. Now I know that my ghost and yours aren’t imaginary, and I don’t think _his_ was quite either, but he still gave me _quite_ good advice.” She waits for Dani to meet her eyes, and when she did, her smile is gone, replaced with the most serious look she can give her. “Are you listening?”

“Of course.” Dani’s brow furrows. “Of course, I’m listening. Why wouldn’t I be listening?”

“Because you keep looking over to Owen and Jamie, and if you were listening, you wouldn’t be doing that.” Miles hasn’t said much while Flora explains, but this is fully him. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, and Dani knows it’s because he is older, but it looks so much like he did when it wasn’t…when it wasn’t _him_ but was really Peter. The man may be gone now, but his influence still remains.

“I’m – I’m sorry. I’ll quit doing that. It’s rude, isn’t it?”

“It’s _quite_ rude, Miss Clayton. But I forgive you.” Flora looks over to Jamie and grins at her, waggling her fingers in her direction. “She is _very_ pretty. And she keeps looking over to you, too, so _I suppose_ it is perfectly reasonable for you to look at her, too.” She is still smiling when she turns back to Dani. “I think the two of you are _perfectly splendid_.”

It seems to Dani that Flora has picked up some of Rebecca Jessel’s mannerisms as surely as Miles picked up some of Peter Quint’s. To be fair, she never met the two of them while they were alive to know that – only picked up on it, only _heard_ about it from Jamie, from Owen, _from Hannah, who_ she _is picking up mannerisms from—_

Flora presses her finger to Dani’s forehead again and meets her eyes just as solemn as she can. “You must give her a face and a story,” she says, just as serious as Dani has ever heard her before. “Your lady in the lake is just as human as we are, only dead and having forgotten herself. She doesn’t even remember her name.”

“Flora.” Dani kneels a little closer and whispers, “She killed people. She almost killed me. She almost killed Henry. _She almost killed you._ ”

“I know,” Flora says, just as prim and proper as she always has been. “But I don’t think she means to. When she picked me up, I was scared, but thinking it over later, I think….” She presses her lips together and looks down as though considering before finally saying, “I think she was trying to be quite like my mom. She’s not my mom, but I think she wanted to be. I think she thought she was. I don’t think she knew I would die.” Her brow furrows, and she meets Dani’s eyes again. “Whatever the case, you must give her a face and a story. Then she won’t be quite as scary as she is now.”

Dani wants to tell Flora that her situation with the little ghost boy was quite a bit different from her own situation with the lady in the lake, but she doesn’t want to quell the young girl’s endless optimism and boundless attempt at understanding. She thinks it’s possible that Flora would try to make even Peter Quint seem better, if she could, and Dani had heard enough about him from Jamie to believe that there is very little good to be said about that man, if anything good could be said about him at all.

So instead of trying to convince Flora otherwise, Dani just takes her hands in her own and gives her a little nod. “If you think I should give her a face and a story, then I will _try_ , but I can’t promise either of them will be very good.” She takes Flora over to the coffee table and pulls out a piece of paper. “I think if I were to give her a face, it would look something like this.” She draws a quick little face – two glaring eyes and a toothy mouth pulled back in a fearsome yell.

Flora laughs, covering her lips with the back of her hand, and then gestures to Dani’s pen. “May I?”

Dani nods and hands the pen over.

“I think, if _I_ were to give her a face, it would look quite like this.” Flora’s face is a little bit better drawn, but in the end, it is still just as simple as Dani’s – but with two eyes and lips turned down in a sad frown than the gruesome Halloween slasher look Dani had given her. “I don’t think she is very happy.”

“I don’t think—” Dani winces again, pinching the bridge of her nose, and shakes her head. It doesn’t do any good; she can still feel the creature just behind her eyes, keeping track of them. “I don’t think she is very happy either. I’m not sure I can fix that, though.”

“I don’t think you’re _supposed_ to fix her,” Flora says, looking up at Dani. “I think she just wants someone to be there _with_ her.”

Dani feels something grow tight in her chest, and she’s not sure whether that’s a reaction from the creature herself or if it’s from her own slight panic at the idea. She doesn’t want to be _with_ the creature. She wants to be with _Jamie_. But she’s certain that’s not what Flora means.

“That’s what Peter wanted, at first.” Miles’s voice is low, and he doesn’t meet Dani’s eyes. “He didn’t want to be alone. But that wasn’t enough. He wanted off of Bly. He wanted a new body. He wanted—” He swallows and stops as his sister reaches over and touches his arm gently.

Miles, perhaps, is the only one who truly understands how things can be with the creature. For all that Flora gave Rebecca Jessel permission, the other woman hadn’t been so greedy and needy as to fully take her the way Peter Quint had taken Miles. But in a way, Peter was worse than the creature is. Dani has been given moments – days, weeks, months, _years_ , hopefully – that are truly, completely her own, even with it roaming about her skull. Peter had pushed Miles out of the way without a second thought in much the same way that Dani is afraid the creature will one day do to her.

But, then, the creature is worse than Peter. Should it take over and return to its former self, then people will die. Peter Quint would never have—

_Peter Quint killed two people. Do not think about what he would or would not have done if he could have gotten away with it._

Dani takes Miles’s hand in hers and gives it a gentle squeeze. “It’s okay, Miles,” she says. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

Miles looks up then and gives her a little nod. He takes a deep breath, as though steadying himself. “We have something else for you,” he says, voice soft. “We thought, since it was Christmas, we should give you a present.” He glances over to Flora, unsure, meeting her eyes, and she gives him a little nod. “Owen said you had been reading a lot of Shakespeare. That’s true, isn’t it?”

It isn’t strictly speaking true. Dani has been reading a lot of things recently, taking so many different books out of the library and devouring them all when she hasn’t been too tired. Other than _Romeo and Juliet_ , most of them haven’t been Shakespeare. And if they had heard that from _Owen_ and not _Jamie_ —

Dani swallows once and nods. It’s not true, but that’s the only way the creature has chosen to communicate with them. That’s probably what Owen meant.

Flora notices her face, and she frowns. “That wasn’t very nice of him, was it? He’s shared something he wasn’t meant to share.”

“It’s okay.” Dani cups Flora’s cheek. “I love Shakespeare. When I was in college, the class I took on him was one of my favorites.” She doesn’t continue to say how much she couldn’t have kept his complete works – they hadn’t covered all of them in school, first of all, and she needed the money to buy the next semester’s books. Even the ones she tried to keep had been sold – with the exception of _Romeo and Juliet_ – to fund her trip overseas. She doesn’t completely regret it. “Why do you ask?”

Miles glances over to his sister again, as though asking permission, and when she nods again, he continues. “We found a set of him in our mother’s things, so we thought….” He glances over to Henry, who nods in understanding and leaves the house briefly. “We thought we would give them to you. Uncle Henry didn’t want them, and he says we’re too young to read them.”

Dani nods. It’s a slow thing, as though knowledgeable of its weight, and her lips press together in a little line. “Thank you,” she starts to say, and her eyes widen as Henry brings in a box of books bound in old, worn out leather. A part of her thinks that these books didn’t just belong to Flora and Miles’s mother, but it isn’t her place to question it. She stands up and walks over to the books, brushing her fingertips along them, and as she does, she feels the creature stretching out from that place just between her eyes, fingers growing taut beneath her own so that it can touch them as well. She feels that deep cinch of terror in the center of her chest, but the creature goes nowhere else and, after that brief touch, fades away entirely.

She isn’t sure what to make of that.

But as she looks over the old books, over the small penciled in writing next to some of the stanzas, over the underlines and circles and engagement with not just one but multiple sets of hands, she amends the conversation she thought she would need to have with the creature about writing in them – these are books meant to be interacted with, not to be protected.

When Dani looks up, she can see the children paying attention to her every movement – and out of the corner of her eye, she can see Owen watching as well. “Thank you,” she says again, better understanding the weight of what they are giving her. “I…I don’t know how to thank you enough. This means so _so_ much to me. I can’t….”

Flora takes Dani’s hand in her own, much smaller one and gives it the same gentle squeeze that Dani had given to Miles only moments before. “You freed the ghosts,” she says, and she squeezes her hand again. “It’s the least we could do.”

Henry gives another little nod, and Dani knows that he could care less about the other ghosts. He only cares that Flora didn’t get dragged beneath the waves. They haven’t told him exactly what happened with Miles and Peter Quint – they haven’t thought it would be particularly wise – so for all Henry knows, Peter has still run off with his money somewhere. It’s easier than trying to explain, and Miles….

Miles hasn’t wanted to tell him.

Dani can feel it in Flora, though, that unspoken thing – she hadn’t just freed the ghosts, she’d freed Miles.

 _It’s the least we could do_ indeed.

She glances up and meets Jamie’s eyes, trying to see if the other woman has had any involvement in this little plan of theirs, and the slightest blush and downturn of her eyes, the way her hand moves to rub at the back of her neck, suggest that _yes_ , she had some hand in this as well. So perhaps that weight doesn’t fall entirely on Owen’s shoulders. Perhaps it isn’t on him at all.

Still.

Dani feels the possibility of a conversation that might need to take place with him. She just doesn’t want to have it just yet. Perhaps not even on this visit. Perhaps not ever at all.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably won't be posting another chapter until Monday - the next one is already roughed out (the next two are roughed out, as well as the beginning of a third and the end of a future chapter, not sure which). I've...honestly been waiting to post the end of this chapter since the first Romeo and Juliet chapter - that's when I initially wrote it, but it felt too soon in the story for it to go there, you know?
> 
> The next chapter is a fairly long one, so hopefully that will make up for the absence of a new one tomorrow. Enjoy!
> 
> Edit: OH ALSO I have a tumblr account - @aparticularbandit - where I post writing updates (sometimes), so if you want, like, minor spoilers or just to talk or whatever, that's a good place for it. (I also take prompts, usually, although it can take me a really long time to do them.)

You give her space.

To be quite fair, you do not want to give her any space at all, not now that you have to roam farther to fill your cup of stars, not now that she has constructed so many obstacles against you sharing any space with her – you want to make your presence known, more frequently and more powerfully, so that she knows these obstructions only keep you back because you allow them to do so.

But you have seen that she has invited others over. So while you spend time behind her eyes, taking stock of everything, you don’t tuck her away in the little cell of your room so that you can read her new books the way you so desperately want. You do not do it while they are there, you do not do it in the evenings when they are gone, and you do not do it until things seem to return to normal – or whatever can pass for normal around here, if anything can.

You almost tuck her away just as the children are leaving, so that you can brush ~~your~~ her hands through their hair, so that you ~~she~~ can just _touch_ them. Something in you _aches_ around children. You think you must have had one of your own once, because nothing in anything you’ve read can even begin to suggest anything else. But you cannot remember who your child is, whether they were male or female or something else, what your husband – and you even assume _that_ – looked like.

You think you must have had a husband. You remember aching for the warmth of a bed, of someone next to you, and you do not believe you would have had a wife and child.

If it is hard to obtain now, then you think it was far harder when you were alive. You do not know how you know that, but you feel it in the thick of your bones. As it is, you are not sure you want a husband or wife now. You cannot remember, and you do not know. Besides, that would mean separating your host from the brunette, and you have no intention of doing that at the moment.

Not when you have new books to read. Not when you are learning to communicate in some form and fashion.

Not when _others_ are willing to communicate with _you_.

* * *

There is space to breathe between Christmas and New Year’s. Henry takes Flora and Miles away shortly before the New Year celebrations, and while Owen is still around, he chooses to spend this one by himself. Dani doesn’t think that is necessarily the healthiest option, but she doesn’t argue against spending that time with just Jamie. The flower shop is set to reopen within a few days – it was shut, of course, over the past week, from two days before Christmas through to the second day of the new year – and while that might be excessive, most people do not need to get flowers between those days. The shop can absorb the hit.

Still.

Dani spends New Year’s Eve curled up next to Jamie. They watch the ball drop on their little telly, and Jamie runs her fingers through Dani’s hair soothingly over and over again. Sometimes, Dani thinks she is a cat, and she thinks that’s okay. She is content to be a cat. And then she looks up at Jamie and the other looks over at her and bends down to kiss her forehead or her lips or the very tip of her nose – the latter of which makes her giggle. She runs cold fingers along the warm skin of Jamie’s sides, tickling her as a response, and when Jamie retaliates, they almost miss the ball dropping entirely. In fact, they _would_ have, if not for the countdown that the crowd yells through their screen, and they call a truce just long enough to kiss when everyone yells _Happy New Year!_

They do not yell the words, but they do say them, and the truce deepens into something softer – or something that _starts_ softer and is more passionate and maybe Dani is sore the next morning and maybe that’s okay, maybe _sore_ can be _good_ when it isn’t from the long spindly fingered grip of a corpse’s hand around your neck. They say the words again in place of _good morning_ , and Dani tugs her lower lip between her teeth as she smiles up at the woman she loves, and for a moment – a clear, crystalline moment – it feels like everything is good and right and perfect, and just because she knows that it isn’t, just because she knows that tomorrow will come – or even later, when it grows dark, something _might_ happen – that doesn’t stop this moment, _this particular one_ from being _right_.

It doesn’t last. It _can’t_ last. But it is there, and she can live and breathe in it.

* * *

“Where do you think you’ll go this time?” Dani asks as Owen stands just inside their front door, hefting his single canvas duffle bag over one shoulder. “London? Paris?” She grins and leans forward across the couch, her eyes lighting up with mischief. “Or will you go to the deep barbecue holes in Texas to learn their ways?”

Owen gives her a blank stare. “I believe this is how Hannah must have felt whenever I made batter puns.”

“Oh, c’mon, Owen.” Jamie punches his shoulder. “No one could have made a batter pun than you.”

Owen’s blank stare turns to Jamie, and he blinks a couple of times before smiling. “Thank you. Between the two of you, I feel properly _battered_.”

“It’s a missed opportunity,” Dani says with a sigh. “We should have had a _proper_ flour fight with the kids. I would pay you good money to see Henry covered in flour.” She wags a finger at him. “Next time, Mr. Sharma, I expect we make gingerbread houses and get ourselves covered in white.”

“You want covered in white, you can go play in the snow, Poppins.” Jamie stares at her as she holds the door open for Owen. “I’m not much on cleaning up after those fights. Hannah was always the one for that, and she didn’t much like it either, if I remember properly.”

Owen takes a deep breath. “No. She didn’t.” He lets the breath out. Then he smiles at Dani. “Thank you for letting a poor penniless chef spend the holidays with you when he has _no one_ else to spend them with.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dani replies immediately. “You have us.”

“You’ll _always_ have us,” Jamie continues, meeting Dani’s eyes.

Dani doesn’t have the heart to contradict her as the door shuts behind them. They have had a good time. They are _still_ having a good time, even as Owen is leaving, and she doesn’t want to quell that with her own dread. She takes a deep breath of her own now that they are gone. She already misses Jamie. Sometimes, it feels like she _always_ misses Jamie, sometimes even when the other woman is right here with her. She doesn’t know how that can be, though.

The worst of it is that, within moments of the others leaving, Dani can feel that familiar, itching, stretching beneath her skin. The creature is there, and the creature is _immediate_ , and the creature is taut and conformed to her like a second layer of muscles and blood vessels around her bones, and it comes without the pressure that normally comes as an early warning, but as soon as it is there, the pressure is there, too – at the base of her skull, at the top, behind her forehead, and between her eyes.

Dani takes a deep breath, and she speaks into the silence the way she did once, so many months ago, when the creature first read with her. “You’re tired of waiting, aren’t you?” She curls her toes around the edge of the sofa cushion, and her gaze falls on the Shakespearean books she has put pride of place on one of the shelves in their living room. “I take it you want to read one of those.”

Correction: _All_ of those. Dani knows it without having to think about it, knows that the creature will probably read through them even before _she_ has time to read through them. And somehow, that seems _right_. She hates that it does.

Dani moves over to the bookshelf, kneels next to it, and runs her finger along the spines of the old leather-bound books. “Would you like me to tell you what each of them are about, so that you know which one you want to start next?”

It feels weird, speaking to the creature the same as she might to a child. Flora had told her to give the creature a face and a story, but Dani has not started doing either of those yet. She isn’t sure that she _can_ , not when the creature seems like such a predatory presence that comes and goes whenever it wants, regardless of what _she_ wants. As much as she might speak to the creature the way she would a child, the thing is that the creature – if it’s a human being, if it’s still human in something other than form– It isn’t a child, it’s an adult.

_Flora said she had forgotten her name._

_Peter said that they would forget everything and their faces would fade._

_Maybe—_

Dani shakes her head. She isn’t thinking about that right now. She is trying to deal with the beast inside her. Not tame it – she is fairly certain she cannot do that – but _appease it_ , perhaps.

The creature doesn’t say anything, the creature doesn’t _do_ anything, but perhaps the _not_ doing something is an indication that Dani is moving in the right direction? It certainly hasn’t taken over her in impatience to draw whichever story it wants from the shelves, tucking her away so that it can devour the story the way it might, one day, devour her.

Dani’s fingertip stops on one of the books, and for the briefest of instants, she feels as though the creature’s finger beneath her own continues to move only to be stopped by her own. She shivers. “This one,” she says, pushing past the feeling, “is a comedy.” She bites her lower lip. “Outside of his poetry, Shakespeare’s works are separated into three kinds – comedies, tragedies, and histories. The last one you read, _Romeo and Juliet_ , is a tragedy because, um, most of the characters die. That’s the main difference between a comedy and a tragedy: in comedies, everyone gets married, and in tragedies, everyone dies.”

_I think I’m in a tragedy._

“The histories are more on historical people and events. _Julius Caesar_ , for instance,” Dani continues, shaking that last thought away, “is about Caesar’s death. It’s less about him as a person – he dies fairly early on – but about the impact of his becoming emperor and how that affected his closest friends – Marc Antony, Brutus.” She presses her lips together. “You don’t know any of those people, do you?”

The creature doesn’t say anything, doesn’t _do_ anything, but Dani gets the feeling that if the creature has completely forgotten herself, then it has forgotten anything it knew about historical events or people such as this, too.

“Shakespeare’s histories aren’t always historically accurate, so don’t rely on them to tell you the 100-percent truth. They’re stories,” Dani says, leaning back on her haunches and staring at the books. “Sometimes what people want – what people _need_ – are stories. Reading about history sometimes feels like a lot of facts, and you can feel really disconnected from all of it. But when they’re written like this, when they’re stories, it’s easier to understand what the people of the time might have felt or wanted, why they acted the way they did.” Dani takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out. “We’re all stories, in the end.”

The creature thrums beneath her, and Dani senses that it is growing impatient. She, too, is not sure what she is doing. That’s a lot of talking to – or _at_ – a creature who hasn’t really seemed like it wants to do much communicating with her. She isn’t even sure that it’s listening.

Still, Dani continues as though it is. “This one is _Much Ado About Nothing_ ,” she says, tapping her finger on one of the spines. “It’s a comedy, which means it has a happy ending, and the basic plot is that, well, it’s all there in the title, really. A lot of big fuss about nothing.” She smiles to herself but doesn’t laugh. “A friend of the prince wants to marry a girl he is in love with, but the prince’s bastard brother makes it look like the girl loses her virginity right before the marriage. Everyone gets upset. There’s a lot of fighting, and there’s some detective work to figure out what exactly happened. But it all ends happily.” Her smile eases. “I _especially_ like Benedick and Beatrice. They’re at each other’s throats with banter for most of the story, but in the end, their family and friends set them up and they fall in love.” She shrugs. “It’s a comedy, _everyone gets married_ , except for the villain.”

The creature doesn’t seem interested.

Dani moves on. “This one,” she says, tapping her finger on another spine, “is _Hamlet_. It’s a tragedy, just like _Romeo and Juliet_ , which means that everybody dies.” She sighs. “It’s considered one of – if not _the_ greatest of Shakespeare’s plays. The main character, Hamlet, sees the ghost of his father, and the ghost tells him that his uncle, the new king, killed him and asks Hamlet to avenge him. Hamlet spends most of the play being indecisive and trying to decide what to do—”

* * *

You do not want to listen to her telling you the plot of all of these stories. You want to read them yourself. You do not much care if they are tragedies or comedies or histories or _whatever they are_ provided they are good.

But you do not tell her that. You are still not sure how to speak without tucking her away, and right now, you are content that she is at least talking to you – treating you like a normal person instead of like a beast.

Still, she shivers beneath you, and you can tell that she is still afraid.

You do not know how to address that. You are not certain you can.

Listening in as patient a manner as you can be is perhaps the best you can do. Let her talk. She’ll pick a book eventually.

* * *

“This one is _Twelfth Night_ ,” Dani continues, unaware of whether the creature actually appreciates what she is saying or not. “It’s a comedy about a girl named Viola. She’s certain that her twin brother has died in a boat crash – one that she survived – and she pretends to be him to serve this duke. The duke is in love with another lady, Olivia, and he keeps sending Viola to Olivia with proclamations of his love. But Oliva falls in love with the boy that she believes Viola is, all the while Viola is falling in love with her duke.” Dani sighs. “It’s _supposed_ to be a comedy, but it isn’t very funny, which isn’t really a qualification for a comedy, but sometimes I feel like it should be.”

But by the time she finishes her explanation, the presence has drawn larger. She can’t explain how or why, only that it has, almost as though it will burst through her skin. Then, all at once, it recedes – back to the bridge of her nose, back across her head, back to the nape of her neck where it throbs once, violently, and then disappears altogether.

Deep in the jungle, she can feel the creature waiting, its rage circulating heated outward.

Dani looks at the book and takes a deep breath and closes her eyes and tries to still herself, all the while wondering: _Is it something I said?_

* * *

You pace back and forth in the room. _Your_ room. Not _the_ room, _your_ room.

You pace back and forth in your room.

You do not wring your hands together as weaker women might. Instead, you walk the length and breadth of your room, over and over again, the soles of your feet seeming to wear away the hardwood floor beneath them, the mud on the edge of your nightgown crusting over as it hardens into dirt. One of the branches has scraped your cheek, and it has left a mark, though not even a single drop of blood has fallen from it.

You stop and you force yourself to look into the mirror of your vanity, pulling down the fabric that once covered it.

You see a face that you know for you own as you meet your own bright, skinless eyes and whisper your name: “ _Viola._ ”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies ahead of time - I don't know if I'll get another chapter posted tomorrow. I'm trying to stay two chapters ahead, and this is basically the point where I catch up to that - I was SUPER ahead for a while, but these chapters have gotten longer, so I'm not so ahead as I used to be.
> 
> I don't think I'll necessarily get an entire next chapter written to get one posted tomorrow. Fighting a really bad migraine - glad I got enough written to get THIS ONE posted.
> 
> So - apologies if there's an additional wait between chapters. We'll see.

_Viola_ looks into the mirror.

No, that sounds wrong.

That’s the name, that’s the right name, it _is_ the right name, it rings true from the tips of your fingers to the ends of your toes and feels warm in the very core of you, that is _definitely_ the _right_ name, _that is_ **your** _name_ , and yet a part of you still does not feel right calling you that.

Viola looks into the mirror because you look into the mirror and you look into the mirror and see Viola and she looks into the mirror and sees you.

You can’t get a headache, but you feel like this sort of circular thinking would give you a headache if you _could_ get one.

It has been so long since you have heard the name, since you have heard _your_ name, that you feel disconnected from it. Someone could call for you, and you do not know that you would respond.

No.

That is not true.

You _did_ respond.

She didn’t use your name.

You take a deep breath and you knead your forehead and you take another deep breath and you look into the mirror again.

Well.

You have a face.

….

You _always_ had a face, it’s just that for the past several months that you’ve been avoiding this mirror it hasn’t really _looked_ like a face so much as it looked like a sculpture that some artist had started crafting and then decided to give up on before giving eyes or a sharp nose or _a mouth—_

~~I have no mouth and I must scream.~~

You had a mouth. You had a mouth and you definitely _did_ scream. No. You yelled. There’s a difference. Screaming is high-pitched and terrified where yelling is low-pitched and _angry_. You didn’t scream. You didn’t need to scream. You _yelled_.

You press your fingers against your face. There are cheekbones now – sharper ones – and you have lips – nice ones, you think, if they can be called that when you are, in fact, a corpse – and you have a shapely nose with a shape and you have eyes and you can _see_. Well, you could see before, obviously, you had to have been able to see before, but you can see much more clearly now. You can see the individual threads in the pattern of your nightgown. You can see the individual strands of your wavy dark hair. You can see that the pink of your lips is a different shade than the ivory of your skin is a different shade than the way your cheeks can hold a blush if you are ashamed – you think perhaps you have never been ashamed, but you could once fake a blush if you wanted _or needed_ to do so – and all of this, again, is different than the sharp, sharp, _sharp bright growing green_ of your eyes, the same as the leaves on an apple tree, the same as the skin of the apples that grow on the trees on your side of the gate, the same as the one that you fed to the brunette before you shoved the blonde back into her spot.

 _Her_ spot.

You stare into the mirror and you stare into the mirror and you mouth your name and you mouth it again and you think you could probably put voice to it if you wanted but you are being given so many specifics about yourself and the world around you is now so sharp and clean and crystal clear that you are not sure you could stand hearing the voice you have been given on the recalling of your name.

Eventually, you grow tired of standing in front of the mirror, and you sit on the edge of the bed, your fingers clenching on the mattress, the comforter soft between your fingers, and you keep staring into the mirror, trying to match _you_ to _Viola_ and _Viola_ to _you_.

This could take some time.

* * *

Dani expects that the next morning she will wake in a different position than she fell asleep in. A different position, a different _location_ – she expects that while she sleeps, the creature will have tucked her away so that it can curl up on the couch and devour the Shakespearean books in the way that it has not been allowed to devour her.

But Dani awakes in her bed, in the same position she fell asleep in, with Jamie’s arm wrapped around her waist, with Jamie’s face pressed into her back, with Jamie’s warm body against hers, and she feels well rested. It has been too long since she felt _well_ rested. She’s felt so tired for so long, even when she’s felt as though she got enough rest, and today….

She closes her eyes, and she tries to feel the creature anywhere in her head. There is no pressure in the back of her head, none at the top, none at her forehead, none between her eyes – and, even more, there is no feeling as though something is stretched taut like a second skin beneath her own. If she focuses hard enough, she can almost imagine a door in a hallway in what looks almost like Bly, and the door she sees looks a lot like the one into her own bedroom when she stayed there, and she knows if she _tries_ the door, she will find it locked.

The creature is on the other side of the door.

Dani takes a deep breath. She looks at the door, _stares_ at it, really, as though waiting for it to open abruptly, for the creature to notice – to _feel_ her staring and come out, its face that melted misshapen wax of nothingness, and its jaw unhinging to yell, yell, _yell_ at her until Dani jumps and finds herself back in herself, with pressure building at the back of her skull.

None of this happens. The creature doesn’t open the door. Dani doesn’t knock. She simply takes another deep breath and, feeling that the creature must be preoccupied with something (and, in part, wishing she knew what that something is so that she can distract it at some point in the future), returns to herself with the opening of her eyes.

She turns in Jamie’s arms and presses a kiss to the tip of her love’s nose. Jamie scrunches her nose a bit and one eye peeps open. “Poppins? What _time_ is it?” She groans and starts to push herself up, rubbing a hand across her eyes. “It’s not late, is it? Didn’t miss my alarm?”

“No.” Dani leans forward and kisses her more properly. “I’m early. _You’re_ early. We have time.”

Jamie meets her eyes. “Time?” she asks, lips curling into a grin. “What’re you suggesting?”

Dani wraps her arms around Jamie’s and pulls her closer to her. “Why don’t I _show_ you?”

* * *

You sleep.

You wake.

You walk.

You do not forget.

Your face maintains its shape – sharp cheekbones, pert nose, full lips, brilliantly green eyes – and as time, such as it is, passes, you become accustomed to the heightened appearance of everything around you. Before, you were looking at everything through a foggy mirror, glazed with mist and hazed with dusk. Now you can see the veins in the bark of the trees growing on your side of the gate, now you can see the little brown or yellow speckles on the skin of your apples, now you can see the thin veins in the plums you have so carefully tried to cultivate on your side, given that they have completely disappeared from the other.

You have yet to try the new fruit that has grown on the other side of the gate. Not because it doesn’t make your mouth water – it does – but because you are settled with your own fruit. But there is only so much sweetness that you can take without wanting something _more_. You ache for more of the soup that Owen offered you, more of the savory, meaty, _salty_ food that is _not_ in abundance here.

Something tells you that you will have to learn to cook your own food, but you have no idea how to do that. Your little room does not have space for a stovetop or oven, and it certainly does not have near enough room to become its own kitchen. What little room that remained has been taken over with bookshelves full of books that you have read what feels like thousands of times, with the exception of one cabinet that holds your bowls and your knives, which you have started to clean in the moat now that your stream has dried up entirely.

At least, if you were given a kitchen, you wouldn’t have to worry about accidentally killing yourself with undercooked food.

Every now and again, when you wake, you stare in the mirror at your face and you mouth your name again, pressing your fingers against your smooth flesh. It is still there. You still remember. The more you say your name, the more it feels _right_ , but perhaps it will take being said by someone who _isn’t you_ before you can quite claim it as your own.

That seems like a fruitless, _hopeless_ endeavor.

But as time goes on, you return to your patterns. You sleep, you wake, and you walk – but you do not forget.

You do not forget.

* * *

“Dani?”

“Hm?” Her face scrunches up, and she opens her eyes to find herself curled up against the arm of their sofa, one of the Shakespearean books open just under her arms. Dani yawns, covering her mouth with one hand, and sits up straight, rubbing her eyes. “Sorry. I must have dozed off.” She swipes a receipt paper from the side table to mark her place. “There are a lot of notes in here. A lot of people cared an awful lot about these. It’s _fascinating_.”

Jamie sits down on the couch next to her and tucks strands of her blonde hair behind one ear. “I’m glad you’re fascinated, Poppins, but you’re sure that was you in there? Last I remember, you were in bed with me.”

Dani nods once, slow. “I was having trouble sleeping,” she says, pressing her lips together. “I got up, made myself a cup of tea—”

“ _Tried_ to make yourself a cuppa—”

“ _I made myself tea, doesn’t matter if no one else likes it or not._ ” Dani gives Jamie a look, and if she were a little more awake or a little less sleepy, she would stick her tongue out at her. She gestures to the empty teacup next to her. “And then I curled up in here to read. It used to be Shakespeare’s histories could put me out just like _that_.” She snaps. “But all of the commentary kept me awake longer than I thought.” She leans forward and gives Jamie a quick kiss. “Sorry for not being there when you woke up.”

“I don’t mind, really.” Jamie grins and kisses her back. “’Specially when I get this kind of welcome. Could get used to this sort of thing.” She stops, head tilting to one side, and starts to say something only for her lips to press together more firmly.

“What?” Dani asks, searching her eyes.

Jamie keeps her lips pressed together, then gives a little nod before tapping just to the side of Dani’s left eye. “The color’s changed.”

“I know. We’ve talked about this.” Dani crosses her arms and leans back against the couch with a soft _thwump_. “The beast turned it brown. I look like a cat with heterochromia.” She pouts. “Why are you bringing it up?”

Jamie taps the same spot again. “It’s not brown anymore, Poppins. It’s green.” She tilts her head to the side. “A really _pretty_ green, actually. Like leaves in spring. Harder to tell the difference from farther away, so I think you won’t get as many people staring at you.”

_Green?_

Dani swallows. She can’t imagine why it would have changed _again_ , and given the metaphorical context of green in stories – new growth, spring, hope, _envy_ , _money_ – there isn’t any reason to apply tropes of literature and stories to the change of her eye color because life doesn’t rely on those sorts of things, but given the time she was just spending in literary analysis, she can’t help but think of that first. The _symbolic_ reason before the _actual_ reason, which she can’t guess at. She reaches up, placing her hand over Jamie’s, and presses her lips together. “I can’t think of any reason why it would do that. I can’t—”

“I wouldn’t worry about it.” Jamie kisses Dani’s forehead, hand flattening to cup her cheek. “I know why you would, but you’ve been more _you_ since Christmas and less _her_. I’m not sure it’s that.”

Dani nods into her hand. Don’t worry about it. Right. That’s easier to say – to _think_ – than it is to _do_ , though. She turns just enough to press a kiss to Jamie’s palm. “You are the best person I have ever met.”

“Quite doubt that.” Jamie rubs her thumb along Dani’s cheekbone. “Have you given any thought to what Flora said? Giving your beastie a face and a story?”

Dani shakes her head. She _hasn’t_ thought about it. She hasn’t _wanted_ to think about it. What sort of _face_ would she give to the creature? What sort of story?

And yet, somewhere, in the back of her mind, jiggling just slightly, she faintly remembers _seeing_ a face on it – a _real_ face – once, a long time ago. Dani’s eyes narrow, trying to remember _where_ that happened. She couldn’t—

“ _Maybe_ ,” Jamie continues, leaning back, “you should think on that. I don’t need you at the shop. Mostly getting things ready for Valentine’s, but orders won’t come in for another week or so.” She crosses one leg over the other and leans back against the couch. “Especially if you’ve had trouble sleeping. Flora only wants to help, and _I think_ she might know a little bit about this.”

 _No_ , Dani wants to say, _she doesn’t._ The only other person she knows of who has dealt with precisely what she is dealing with is _Miles_ , and even then, it had been quite different. Her beast in the jungle hasn’t taken her over so completely as Peter Quint took over him. Whether that is because Dani has a stronger will than Miles – or Peter – is debatable; she’s certain she doesn’t have one much stronger than the creature within her, considering that its own stubborn sense of will must have been what has kept it going all this time – but this is entirely new territory.

Still.

Giving the creature a face and a story is only good if she plans to live with it. She is being _forced_ to live with it _to contain it_ , and she feels like she has to _fight_ it. Personalizing the creature will only make it harder to fight.

But Dani doesn’t say any of that. Instead, she only nods. “Okay,” she says, and it is a lie, and she hates that it is a lie that she is telling to the love of her life, but she says it anyway. “Okay.”

Jamie lets out a deep breath and smiles before leaving, and Dani hates that she’s lied. The lie sits in the center of her chest with the same pressure that the creature creates when it rears its head, and she hates the feeling so much that she decides, _fine_ , she _won’t_ have lied. She’ll try to give the creature a face and a story.

The story might not be a particularly _good_ one, but perhaps she can come up with something.

Dani closes her eyes and tries to imagine the creature’s face first. That should be easier. If _any_ of this could be said to be easy. She takes a deep breath, steadies herself, and brings up what she has seen of the creature’s face – that melted wax statue image. Immediately, she flinches away and opens her eyes, grabbing the arm of the sofa to steady herself.

It wasn’t really there. Not really. She was just _thinking_ about it. She can’t feel it at the base of her skull, she can’t feel the pressure of it at all, and yet she still presses her fingertips to that spot as if she could. It calms her. It _does_.

Maybe Dani is lying to herself now, too.

_Okay, Dani. Get a grip on yourself. You’re giving her a face. Maybe you won’t be so scared of her after you give her a face._

Another deep breath.

Dani closes her eyes again and pulls forth the image of that face again. She still flinches – it’s impossible not to, she thinks, considering what that _thing_ is to her – but she forces herself to stay in the moment, to hold the image of the creature’s face in her mind.

Okay. So. Give her a face. A _real_ face, not whatever this is.

Dani can feel her breathing growing faster, and she forces herself to take a third deep breath, to hold it, and then to let it out through her nose, counting as she did so. _Calm down. You have to calm down._ Her lips press together in a thin little line so tight that she feels as though she might bite through her lower lip. Not a great idea.

_Jamie runs a thumb over her split lip. “You want me to kiss it and make it better, Poppins?”_

Dani shakes her head. Nope, _nope_ , not going there. Focusing on giving the faceless creature a face. That’s what she is doing. She is _focusing_.

Trying to, anyway. Not very hard. Which is probably why she isn’t succeeding as much as she would like.

_You can do this. Just give her a face, Dani. Don’t even worry about the story right now. Just the face._

You see her appear before you with eyes closed and hands outstretched.

If you weren’t, well, _you_ , then you might have been intimidated. But your host, whatever else she may be, is not intimidating to you in the slightest, no matter how hard she tries. A zoo keeper is not intimidating to its animals, and if that is the spot she wishes to hold, then you will not fight her on it. _Let her have it._

But if she expects you to act like an animal, then you may very well learn to act the part.

The girl steps forward, and her hands find your face, and she flinches away, fingers twitching.

You keep track of her curiously, stepping back from her. There is something _unsettling_ about someone running into you, fingers first, right at your face. It’s a good way to poke someone’s eyes out, if yours can even _be_ poked out. (You aren’t sure they can.)

This time, when she takes a deep breath and forces herself forward again, you step into her touch.

You do not know _why_ , exactly, she is trying to touch your face with her eyes closed, but you can be accommodating.

When she begins to poke and prod, you cover her hands with your own. Your brush your thumb along the backs of them to still their ceaseless wandering, and you hold them in place. When she opens her mouth as though to speak, you listen.

 _Give her a face_ , she says.

Well. You already have a face. She can’t give you what you already have. She can’t _make_ a face for you. Her fingers are not those of an artist, and her hands aren’t those of a sculptor – and even if they were, you are not a block of marble to be sculpted in whatever way or fashion she would like you to look.

But if she wants to know what your face looks like – and if she refuses to open her eyes to look at you – then you can train her hands and what she sees. You hold her hands to your face and you allow them to trace the shape of you. Sharp cheekbones, pert nose, the angles of your jaw, the slope of your chin.

You have a face now. If she wishes to see it without seeing, this is the best way.

When Dani brings the creature’s image before her again, she immediately begins trying to reconstruct a better shape from the nothing that is there before her. Okay, now that she’s looking at it more like a sculptor and less like a person, it’s not _nothing_. There is a very distinct nose line. If she pushes away the wax-like feel, it’s a little more distinguished. It’s an actual nose. That tip probably comes out a little bit more. Her lips _probably look like actual lips_ and not just this faded skin thing. She should have eyebrows.

This is where Dani pauses again. She has always seen the creature as having black hair, but maybe that’s because she has always seen her hair as _wet_. Maybe it isn’t black at all. Maybe it’s just a really dark brown. Darker than Jamie’s, but not nearly as dark as Owen’s. Maybe, if it isn’t wet, it’s soft. Maybe it’s frizzy. It has waves like Jamie’s does, but they’re a little more spread apart than Jamie’s, which is probably more _curly_ and less _wavy_. Jamie’s hair has frizz sometimes, so it’s likely – if the creature’s hair was dry – that it would be a little frizzy, too.

If her hair is a dark brown, then her eyebrows – where they should be, of course – are a dark brown, too.

No, she doesn’t have a unibrow, although if Dani wants to make herself laugh, she can imagine one there. She won’t, but a part of her wants to. Flora hadn’t said it had to be a _good_ face.

_Fine, fine, no unibrow._

Ruin her fun.

Dani looks at the face, and it looks…incomplete. Of course, it’s incomplete, she hasn’t done anything with the eyes yet. But she looks…nice. _Really_ nice, actually. Not Dani’s type – ugh, no, she’s the creature who lives in the lake, she is a beast who wants to – is _waiting_ to – devour her – so, no, not Dani’s type at all, thank you very much – but she does look…nice.

She’ll look better with eyes.

After a few moments, you let her hands continue their exploration without your help. She seems to acknowledge that you don’t like the picking or the poking or the prodding or the attempts to press your skin smooth. Her touch is more tentative. Soft, even, as her fingers sweep across your skin, finding the slope of your brows, pushing back through your hair and feeling its waves.

It isn’t a too terribly unpleasant feeling.

In fact, you might say it was perfectly splendid.

No.

Those words don’t sound right from you.

It is just….

It has been _so long_ since you have been touched by _anyone_. You can’t know how long. Time is inconsistent in here at best, and from what you can tell, it has been longer than decades since you first moved beneath the waves. No one touched you during your time there – you might have touched a lot of people, and you might have had a child curled up against you twice, which is closer – but that isn’t the same. In fact, it is entirely possible that you have not been touched – really, _truly_ touched – since you were alive.

This isn’t what you want. Not really. That would require her knowing exactly what she was doing. And yet, you can’t help but curl into the touch of her fingers along your skin. Just because it isn’t what you want doesn’t mean it isn’t _something_.

The ache within you thrums with abject **need**.

Then she steps back and stares at you, her lips pressed together in a firm little line. She hasn’t run her fingers along your eyes yet – and a good thing, too, because you think she might have hurt them if she tried. The thing is, without looking, how can she tell the color of your hair, the color of your eyes? Would she just _guess?_ That seems like an inexact science to you.

You wait.

Dani takes another deep breath and notices that her tongue has just started to poke through her lips the way it sometimes does when she’s particularly focused on something important. Well, she hadn’t considered this _important_ , but apparently it is once she gets to it.

_Eyes. What do the creature’s eyes look like?_

But Dani knows that. She’s seen one of them in her face ever since Bly. She—

Wait.

Dani gets up and moves to the bathroom. At first, she thought she would give the creature eyes of the same muddy brown color that she’d had in one of her own, but Jamie said earlier that eye’s color had shifted recently from _brown_ to _green_. She presses her lips together and stares at her own reflection in the mirror. It doesn’t shift or change – it’s really her on the other side – but Jamie is right, that eye has changed from its unclear brown to a sharp, startling green.

Okay.

Dani closes her eyes again, and when she does, the face of the creature – the face she has constructed – stares back at her with eyes of that same startling, brilliant green.

She takes a deep breath and steps back, opening her eyes and clinching her hands into fists. She _did_ recognize her. She _had_ seen that face – or something like it – that time so long ago. But she had forgotten.

Well, now the creature has a face.

The _right_ face.

She can mess with the story later. Not right now. She has had _more_ than enough for now.

Jamie will proud of her for making it _this_ far, at least. She will tell her about the face when she gets back.

For a moment, the girl flicks out of place. She takes a deep breath, tongue sticking between her lips, and just _disappears_.

It isn’t unsettling – not really – but you would like a bit of warning before she intrudes on your space and another one before she poofs away entirely. Of course, she isn’t gone long before she reappears again, eyes still closed, but still looking as though she is staring at you.

There is no use to this. No use to staring without opening her eyes.

You step forward, mouth opening as though to say something, although you have still said nothing, although you have made no vocalizations other than that low, guttural yell that you made when you wanted her to leave you alone – and it is not that which springs to your lips now, more than almost anything you want to say, _Look. Look at me! I am real and human and flesh and blood just like you are! I am not a monster that you need to run and hide from in terror! I am just me!_

Whoever _me_ is.

(The name _Viola_ thrums in your chest. That’s a start. You know it’s a start. But you don’t know _what_ it starts.)

Then her eyes open.

You stare into her blue eyes and you know that, as much as she is staring at you, she does not really know that she is there _with_ you. She is too focused on what you look like, on what you _might_ look like, her eyes going over your face as though checking her work, as though she had been taking a test when she ran her fingers along your skin and now she is making sure that she is right.

Your lips – thin but there all the same – press into a firm little line.

She might be looking at you, but she is not looking at _you_. She is looking at what she thinks she has created.

Her head tilts to one side, as though considering the look of you, and her lips twitch into something almost like a smile. But not at you, though. No, _never_ at you. Only at that imagination of you, at the face she thinks—

You stare at her smiling, and you have the faintest sensation that she thinks you look _nice_ , and you do not know what to think about that. Of course, you look nice. You would look nicer if you wore something other than a nightgown, but that might be too much to ask for at this point from a woman who only allows you fruit and water – and really wouldn’t allow you either of those at all if you hadn’t stolen the fruit from them. Perhaps she would allow you water. You hadn’t asked for that. Of course, she had also redirected it to make her moat, so really—

When she flickers away, you are not sure how to feel. It’s better, isn’t it, that she came here and tried to figure out what you looked like? That’s _something_ , isn’t it?

But it isn’t _enough_.

You curl up cross-legged on your bed and you interlace your fingers and you sigh.

You’re not sure she will ever _be_ enough. Not as long as she refuses to acknowledge you as an actual person.

You _are_ a person. You know that you are. You had been so certain she would see you as one.

The void gnaws in the center of your chest, and you feel raw in a way that you didn’t when she wasn’t here at all.

This, perhaps, is worse.

You are so tired of being lonely.

* * *

“Blimey, she sounds a bit like wish fulfillment.”

Dani almost bites her nose off – her mouth definitely drops open, followed by, “She is _absolutely_ not! Why would you think that she’s—” – before she sees the mischievous spark in Jamie’s eyes, notices the way one corner of her mouth is just slightly upturned, and then her eyes narrow, her arms crossing. “You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?”

Jamie shakes her head. “Nah, Poppins. Why _ever_ would I do that?”

Dani sticks her tongue out at her. “You’re right, though,” she says, her arms still crossed as she considers. “If she really looked like that, she wouldn’t be near as intimidating.” Her lips press together, and she shakes her head. “I think she’d _still_ be intimidating. She has the sort of face that says she could do one of those wry, charismatic smiles – like being one of those super intelligent people who’s really good at getting people to do what she wants.”

“Sounds like someone I know.” Jamie nudges Dani with her elbow.

Dani raises one eyebrow. “Me? I’m _nothing_ like that.”

“No, I meant _me_.” Jamie sticks her tongue out just as Dani pushes her away from her. “No, in all seriousness, she sounds an awful lot like Peter Quint.” Her teeth grit together just as soon as his name slips through her lips. “Smarmy, no good, son of a bitch who deserved what he got.”

Dani stares blankly at Jamie. “The creature _killed_ him. You know that, right?”

“So you’ve told me.” Jamie shrugs. “Still wish she had left a piece of him for the rest of us.” She looks Dani in the eye – in the _green_ eye, in particular. “You hear that? _You should’ve left a piece of him for me._ ”

There’s a rumbling of something in the back of her head, but the pressure doesn’t start at the base of her skull and the creature doesn’t come out proper. Dani rolls her eyes. “I don’t think she appreciated that.” Her eyes narrow. “I think she expects you to be _grateful_.”

She doesn’t know why she thinks that. She doesn’t know why she’s giving the creature human emotions.

Oh wait. Yes, she does. Giving her a face made her seem more human.

Maybe this was a very, very bad idea.


	13. Chapter 13

Dani dreams herself in that little room again for the first time in what feels like weeks, but it is not how she remembers it. The chest is just where it was, inlaid in the wall across from the bed, and the vanity is where it was, too, only the mirror is laid bare with nothing to cover it. But there are bookshelves covering much of what had once been empty space before, and each of those shelves is covered with different books. She moves from the bed and goes to the shelves, examining them, and finds that each of them is a book she has taken from the library, each of them a book she has already read. _Romeo and Juliet_ is set to one side carefully, as though somehow it is more special than the others, and she does not want to guess at why that would be.

None of the newer books are here, none except for the shell of one that says _Twelfth Night_ on the side. But it cannot be the book itself; the cover is far too thin to hold the contents of the work. So, curious, she picks that one off of the shelf and opens it.

* * *

You tuck her away easily enough. It is _always_ easy; you simply do not always choose to do it. There are reasons for this. You have reasons. You just cannot put words to them.

The books are easy enough to find, too, but you do not read through them as quickly as you read through the others. There’s something to be said about reading something through for the first time. Maybe _not_ for the first time, but since you can’t remember any other time you read them, it might as well be the first time. Remembering your name might have brought your face back, but it didn’t bring your memories back. You don’t know what will do that. You don’t know if anything will.

Instead of curling up on the arm of the sofa with your chosen book, you meander into the kitchen. Your host and the brunette have a bowl of fruit much like your own sitting on the counter. Everything seems clean. Methodically so, perhaps. Either they are of the sort who like to clean as soon as they have finished a meal, or it was simply the day to clean. You cannot be sure. This isn’t one of the things that you’ve paid much attention to. Your host likes to keep her time with the brunette private, and you try to respect that as much as you are able. You don’t _always_ , but sometimes. It’s certainly easier than choosing _not_ to and then coming back to the rusted gate only to find that the defenses she’s trying to use to barricade you in your cell have grown larger.

Not _worse_. Just larger.

You run a finger along the countertop. No dust. No dirt. No crumbs. Impeccable.

After a few moments, you move to the refrigerator. Somehow, you know that you did not have one of these, whenever it was that you lived, and while you are not in awe of its existence, a part of you wishes that you had one then. You don’t know _which_ part, but part of you, most certainly. You open it and look through the food that is within. It all _looks_ good. You take one of the little glass bowls, open the top, and sniff at it.

Tucking her away like this, you smell through her nose and, you are certain, though you have not tried, you would taste with her tongue. You do not need this much. You probably don’t _need_ anything. It probably would not do well for her to come back to you having _eaten_ something. You close the bowl and put it back in the refrigerator.

Still, you want something while you read. You do not know what it is until you find the packets of tea hidden away in one of the cupboards. You smile with her lips. Then you pull out a kettle – a soft cream color with little pink flowers sketched all over it – and fill it with water. It takes a few minutes to figure out how to work the stovetop, but you _had_ seen Owen using it before, and it isn’t nearly as hard as you might have imagined.

While the water boils, you find a cup. It looks like yours – dark blue and speckled with creamy blue stars – but with a crack along one edge, a chip just along its lip. That feels right, too. You run her finger along the lip of the cup and smile, setting it to one side and leaning against the counter with its sink to wait.

The kettle lets out a piercing whistle for all of a second before you pull it from the stovetop in a deft movement. You fill your cup with hot water, set your chosen pack within it, and let it steep. There’s a little sugar pot, and you take that with you, just in case. This one claims to be an herbal tea, so it should be sweet enough without anything added in, and you have no intention of leaving your pack steep so long that it grows bitter. You crack open your chosen book and settle in to read.

“Poppins?”

You look up from your book over to the brunette, who yawns, covers her mouth with one hand, stretches one arm above her head, hand pulling at her elbow, and then yawns again. “You’re making hot chocolate?”

On second consideration, hot chocolate would have been a better idea, but it pains you that these people make theirs with water and powder from packets instead of with milk and actual melted chocolate. Heathens.

You lift your cup of tea and take a sip.

The brunette stares at you. “You made tea?”

You nod then open ~~your~~ _her_ mouth and then shut it again, pressing ~~your~~ _her_ lips together. It has been a long time since you have spoken. You are not sure if you can. Still, you try, letting her lips move in the motion of the words, feeling her vocal chords rub together ever so slightly and making sound. “Yes. I was—” You hesitate, licking your lips. “—thirsty.”

It is… _hard_ to speak, but you manage. Your tone takes on a question at the end of it, but you think you have done well enough. Before thinking about it, you close the book, place it on the side table, and get up to make a cup for the other woman in the same manner you would expect your host to do. She follows you, and you guess at which pack she will take – something harsher than the herbal you’ve taken – Earl Grey, perhaps – and you hand her a cup of her own with the pack just set to steep.

The brunette stares at the cup of tea and then at you. “Take the sugar, did you?”

You nod, pressing your lips together, gaze flicking to the side table where you left the sugar pot. “It’s just there.”

The more you speak – little as it may be – the easier it is. Still, the brunette keeps an eye on you as she takes her cup and curls up on the other arm of the couch. She moves her pack a few times – up and down, once, twice – and then pulls it out entirely, takes two cubes of sugar, and stirs them into her cup.

You curl up where you were before, but you do not open the book. It seems like a bad idea.

“What’re you reading?”

You take the book from where you left it and hand it over to her. That’s easier than trying to speak again.

The brunette runs her fingers along the outside edge. “Shakespeare again, huh? What’s this one about?”

This is a conversation. She is trying to have a conversation with you. You have a hard time speaking, and she is trying to have a conversation with you. But, then, she doesn’t know it’s you. If she did, you are sure she would have reacted entirely different. She doesn’t like you, after all. You remember that very clearly.

You swallow. “It has been a while since I read it,” you say, haltingly, your gaze focusing on the book instead of the young woman. Not entirely a lie, you think, not that it matters. You try to remember how your host described it. “ _Twelfth Night_ is a comedy. Everyone gets married.” Although it is easier to speak as you go, you still have starts and pauses, broken sentences. You hope it sounds like you are considering your words and not as though something is wrong.

_Nothing is wrong._

You are uncomfortable with this. It has been a very, very long time since you have tried to have a conversation with anyone. You cannot remember the last time you did. This is easier than letting your host’s fingers roam your face, though. Even if this young woman doesn’t realize she is talking with _you_ , she at least acknowledges your presence. That’s something. Isn’t it?

“Viola—”

You start, wince, and shake your head. Saying the name _feels_ wrong. You force yourself to continue.

“—believing her twin brother to be dead, feigns his likeness in service to a duke. The duke, believing her to be her brother, sends her to woo and romance the lady, Olivia, to be his wife, while all the while Olivia slowly falls in love with Viola, who she believes to be a man.” You press your lips together and guess at the ending, even though you haven’t quite gotten there yet. “In the end, Viola’s brother is revealed to be alive. Olivia marries him, and Viola marries her duke. Everyone lives, everyone is married, and so far as we know, everyone is _believed_ to be happy.”

You are not certain that is the case. Marriage is not so simple as plays like these make it out to be. You cannot say why you know that is so, but you know it, somewhere deep in your bones.

“And all of that just because this Viola character believes someone is dead who isn’t?” The brunette taps the book’s cover a couple of times. “Seems Shakespeare likes this _mistaken for dead_ thing. It’s been in both of those books.” She looks up and meets ~~your~~ _her_ eyes. “Or is that just you? _You_ like reading that sort of thing?”

You don’t know how to answer that. In absence of having a ready answer, you take your cup of tea and sip it. That gives you time to come up with something, to figure out how to form the words yourself. “I like Shakespeare,” you say, finally, stumbling a bit over his name. “He may reuse—” You pause, trying to think of how to word it. “— _mistaken for death_ more than once, but each time he does so in a new and different way. He speaks of love, and it is as though I feel his words for myself. _Here._ ”

When you reach across to the book, you sense the brunette stiffen, but you do not take note of it. Your focus is instead on the story itself. You open the book to the opening lines and tap your finger to them. You do not want to read them aloud; you feel that would have a most disastrous result, and you do not even want to attempt it. “ _This_ is _poetry_.”

You cannot say more than that. You do not have the words to adequately describe it.

The brunette reads the opening lines and then looks up at you. She finishes her cup of tea with a nod. “Maybe I’ll try to read this one, then,” she says, halting just the same way as you have, “and we can talk about it. Like I said, I’m not much on Shakespeare. You can maybe teach me some things.”

_No._

That is a bad idea.

If she starts trying to talk Shakespeare with your host and referencing a conversation that your host doesn’t remember having, that can only lead to more attempted barriers along your path. They do not _do_ anything, but the relationship with your host is of most importance. You feel this, too, deeply, even though you doubt your host agrees with you in the slightest.

“Don’t worry,” the brunette says as she stands, stretching again. “It will just be between you and me, ghostie.”

You stare at her, meet her eyes, and your head tilts ever so slightly to one side. “You knew.”

“’Course I knew. You’re better at this than Dani is,” the brunette says, gesturing to her empty cup. “She thinks you put a whole bunch of these packets in a pot and leave them. Doesn’t really get the idea of the drinker makes it to taste.” Her teacup clinks as it hits her side table. “She’s not much good at coffee either, but we’re working on that one. Once she understands coffee, she’ll understand tea.”

 _Heathen_ , you think again. Then you keep your eye on the other woman, waiting to see how she will respond to you, if it will be different now that she has guessed and you have acknowledged it.

The brunette bends her neck to one side until it just cracks. “You don’t want me to think Dani’s already dead. _Fine._ I don’t think she is. You, though.” Her eyes narrow. “I don’t know what to make of you. Nothing good, maybe, but you know how to make a good cuppa tea.”

“ _You_ made your tea.”

“Exactly.” The brunette grins. It doesn’t feel safe or calm or anything like that, but perhaps the slightest bit of merriment. You don’t know what to make of it. Then she waves one hand at you. “You put Dani back in bed when you’re done, and you _clean_ things. Don’t want her going after me for leaving teacups out.” She starts back to their room, then stops, stares at you. “And don’t you stay in bed with me. Don’t really want to be sleeping next to a ghost.”

You watch as she walks away. A part of you thinks she shouldn’t tell you what to do, and that is certainly true. She could make your pathways a living hell – or a dead one, as it might be – but you don’t think she will. You think it is likely that she would be in just as much trouble with your host for speaking with you as you would be for speaking with her. You think this is a secret the two of you will keep.

As suspicious as you might be, you can’t help but feel warm at the thought that, after all this time, someone is willing to talk with you. Not just Owen, who is not around nearly enough to maintain contact, but someone who will actually take time to spend with you. It’s a blessing.

Well.

It’s _something_ , at least.

* * *

The book continues to fill with writing as Dani glances through it. She takes the book with her to the bed and finds a bowl of fruit waiting on her. She isn’t hungry, but she takes an apple from the bowl anyway, idly taking a bite for no reason other than she can. It is not as sweet as she might have expected, certainly not as sweet as she wants it to be, but it is there all the same. Like sawdust, but with a slightly better taste.

There is a difference, though, with the lines and notes filling in the book. They aren’t _exactly_ the same as the real book itself. Not that Dani has particularly read through the entire one that Miles and Flora gave her, but she is absolutely certain nevertheless that it does not have the name _Viola_ underlined at every instance. She doubts that anyone in the Wingrave family – or _whoever_ owned this prior to herself – would have done that.

Which means that it must mean something to the creature herself.

Dani curls up against the headboard. She is aware that this is the creature’s room and that this isn’t really a dream, only that she imagines it is one instead of believing that she has been tucked away into the back of her own mind, but she doesn’t like to think about that. She far prefers the lie of the dream to the truth of being tucked away.

What could Viola _possibly_ mean to the creature who lives within her?

Dani tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. She doubts it has anything to do with the character herself. Viola may be the main character, but she’s not much compared to Hamlet, Romeo, or Juliet. She spends most of the play pretending to be someone she isn’t – pretending to be her twin brother, who she believes to be dead – but Dani can’t imagine why the creature would care about that.

On second thought—

Almost as soon as Dani begins to consider it, she feels herself beginning to fade away. Not _fade_ – not in the way that the creature’s face is faded – but that slow shift that tells her she is moving from this dream into another one entirely.

 _No_ , she wants to say. _No, wait!_ She feels as though she is finally beginning to understand something, to grasp at something just beyond her reach, something she knows she will lose if she slips from this dream into another one before she’s got it – something she might lose anyway, as is the way of dreams.

But her request is unheard, and she slips from the room just as the door begins to open and the lady resumes her place.


	14. Chapter 14

Dani notices that she is tucked away in the little room more and more often. It is the same as before – she remembers that she has the dream, remembers that she is having the dream more and more frequently, but some of the specifics are lost in the waking, as always happens with dreams. She feels as though something is missing – as though she is close to grasping _something_ – and that feeling remains, but what she was so close to understanding, what she was _trying_ to understand? That is lost entirely. Only the feeling, and eventually, even that fades.

Still.

It doesn’t worry her as much as it did before. The dream happens while she is asleep, while _Jamie_ is asleep, and is usually just an indication that the creature is waking and walking – and while that _does_ worry her, it has yet to do anything too terribly terrible. She suspects that it is just reading the Shakespearean books, but she has nothing to prove herself correct. Whereas before she sometimes woke curled up on the couch with one of the books under her arms or on the table just next to her, now she always finds herself in bed with Jamie. So perhaps she is wrong. Perhaps the creature _isn’t_ waking and walking. Perhaps the dream is truly just a dream.

She tells herself that, but she doesn’t quite believe it.

And the thing of it is – Dani feels much more rested now than she did before, and that feeling allows her to be more productive than she has been in the previous months. She wakes with Jamie or just after. She cooks – not as well as Owen does, but who among them can cook like that other than him? She spends more time in the flower shop, and she’s _needed_ there, with Valentine’s Day quickly approaching. More and more people are there making more and more orders, and Dani stays on top of it as much as she can, managing the schedule, managing when people should come to get their flowers, managing who is getting what and how many of them—

She’s good at the technical side of the business, much better than she thought she would be. It isn’t that Jamie isn’t – she _is_ , and often just as well or better than Dani – but Dani is admittedly better at the personable part of the process. She is more patient than Jamie, whose temper can flare unexpectedly in frustration at her customers, who sometimes smiles through gritted teeth, but who is much better at the bottom line and firm _no_ than Dani is. Still, it feels good, having something that she can actually _help_ with.

And, being around more often, there are other things.

* * *

“Hey.” Dani plops a little box of home-cooked food in front of Jamie, grin spreading across her face, and after a quick check to make sure no one is looking (and why would they?), she bends down and presses a peck to her cheek.

“Morning, Poppins.” Jamie turns toward her and gives her a proper kiss, arms wrapping around her waist. “You’re down here early today.”

It’s a joke – _it’s a joke_ – and yet Dani feels herself growing defensive, stepping out of her arms. “I was _cooking_. We were running out of those readymade frozen leftovers, and _I_ thought it’d be a good idea to make more of them, and _here_.” She nods to the little container, hands propped on her hips. “This is some of it still warm. Figured you’d like that.”

Jamie nods. “Aye, you got that right.” She reaches over and brushes a hand through Dani’s hair. “You know I’m not really mad, Dani.”

“Yes. _Yes._ ” Dani’s gaze lowers. She starts to say something else and then stops, noticing the book hiding beneath their records. “What’re you reading?”

Jamie’s eyes widen. “Oh, this?” She shoves it to the side. “It’s nothing.”

But Dani recognizes that binding, and she pulls the book out. “Is this _Romeo and Juliet?_ ” she asks, voice tight. She glances up and meets Jamie’s eyes. “I thought you didn’t _like_ Shakespeare.”

“I don’t, honestly.” Jamie props her elbow up on the counter and leans against it. Her head tilts to one side. “It’s _proper boring_. Sometimes think it’ll make me fall asleep right here at work. Bit of a hazard, really.”

Dani runs her finger along the words and taps it. “Have you been taking notes?”

Jamie sighs. “I’ve been reading the ones there. They help. Sometimes.” She rolls her eyes. “Sometimes they make it worse. Gotta take notes or my noggin’ll get heavy with all of that.” She raps her knuckles against her forehead.

“If you hate it so much,” Dani says, eyes narrowing, “then why are you reading it? I won’t mind if you don’t.”

Jamie takes a deep breath, shrugs, and then sighs. “I figure, if you’ve read it and your ghostie’s read it—”

Dani tenses at the mention of the beast still living within her. She expects that will cause it to appear, and she waits for the accompanying pressure to start at the base of her skull, that recognition of the creature to the mere mention of it. But there is nothing.

“—then I’d better read it, too.” Jamie presses her lips together. “Thought maybe if she started leaving us notes, I might want to be able to understand them.”

“She’s not going to leave us any more notes,” Dani says, her voice firm, and she shuts the book tight, holding it against her chest. “And if she does, we’re not going to read them.”

“Not sure that’s the best idea, Poppins.” Jamie turns, leaning her back against the counter so that she can get a better look at her. “Flora says your beastie was a woman once. Maybe if we pay her a spot of attention, she’ll be a proper woman again and not some faceless wandering menacing beastie. You give her a story yet?”

“No,” Dani says, still firm, “and I’m not going to. _I’m_ the one having to live with this thing, Jamie. You don’t know what it’s like, not knowing when it’s going to decide to tuck me away, not knowing when it’s going to show up and stretch beneath my skin like I’m just an extra set of _clothes_ to it.” She takes a deep breath and shudders. “It’s _horrible_. No notes it leaves are good. It says I’m not dead – _and I’m not_ – but it also said that it wants to _feast on me_. Those aren’t the sort of notes I want to read.”

Jamie takes a deep breath. “Not sure it meant that it’s feasting on you—”

“I know my Shakespeare, Jamie. I read what it left.”

“Yeah, just,” and here Jamie hesitates, as if unsure, “what I’m learning about Shakespeare is he doesn’t always say things quite literally. They mean something else. So if the literal is the feasting, then that’s probably not what it means. It probably means something else.”

Dani presses her lips together and shakes her head. “Tell me that when a ghost leaves those lines for you.” She takes a sharp breath in and lets it out. “Let’s just agree that we don’t talk to the beast, okay? I don’t want it….” She lets the breath out. “I don’t want it interfering more than it already does. I don’t want it thinking that it’s okay to just tuck me away in a dream and do whatever it wants.” She meets Jamie’s eyes. “The more reach we give it, the more it will take. I don’t want it to take me.”

“I don’t want it to take you either.” Jamie reaches over and pushes Dani’s hair back out of her eyes. “That’s the last thing I want.”

“So quit trying to talk with it. You and Owen both.” Dani sighs. “I should’ve had a talk with him while he was here. Just let the thing sleep, and eventually, maybe….” She doesn’t say anything else. She knows the beast won’t sleep forever. She knows that one day it will eat her. But the more she ignores it, the more she can maybe push that day off.

That’s the hope, anyway. The best one she has.

Dani laughs at herself and steps back. “I sound crazy, don’t I?” she asks, and she forces herself to smile. “Let’s just get the shop to running. You eat your food. I’ll put this,” she gestures to the book, “somewhere else. Let’s not think about it, okay?”

Jamie meets her eyes, but the worried look is still there as she nods. “Okay, Poppins,” she says, hesitant. “As long as you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

* * *

You did not _intend_ for your name to be underlined – sometimes _circled_ – over and over and over through your copy of _Twelfth Night_ , and yet you find that this is so. It makes you stare at the book and wonder if the words that are in this, and the words in the others, are truly what is written in the actual texts or if they are just the words that you remember, if there are other changes to them just as you have made changes to this one. Your changes here might not be textual, but that does not mean that you have not made others that way. You would need to lay the two texts next to each other to tell.

Or, on second thought, given that you have read and reread these so many times that some of them you think you could quote from memory, you could just as well reread one of them while your host is tucked away. That would be a simple enough test. You determine to try this with her copy of _Romeo and Juliet_ at some point, although a part of you worries that you will forget.

You have been forgetting less since taking your place in this room. This should be a good thing. You are _certain_ this is a good thing. And yet, there is no one to share this with. Most of your memories are of this room, of your path, of the jungle, and of your host’s apparent hatred of you. They aren’t particularly _good_ memories. Sometimes, you wonder if they really are better than nothing.

But at least now you have something to look forward to – your talks of Shakespeare with the brunette.

Names are still beyond you, and perhaps that is because you have yet to claim your own as truthfully as they have claimed theirs. You have not been formally introduced, and neither have they.

(You know that your host is Dani – _Danielle Clayton_ – and you know that the brunette is Jamie. But they do not seem as though they want you to know this, and so you choose to act as though you do not know. When they want to discuss with you, they will introduce themselves. Then, perhaps, you can introduce yourself, if your name feels right. You are unsure.)

It is at the end of one of your discussions that the brunette requests, with a yawn, that you stay away for a day.

You narrow your host’s eyes, and you stare at her. “Why?”

Over the course of your conversations, it has become easier for you to speak. You still stumble every now and again, and you have yet to try and speak in your own body, in your room where you live when you have not tucked your host away, but you feel better about it. You think that you _could_ speak, if you were called upon, just as easily as you speak here, if your body still allows for it.

So when you ask, it is with your brows furrowed, with the slightest lean forward. You know better than to consider the brunette as anything other than a conversation partner; she still does not much like you, as you well know, and she still has not introduced herself to you. In fact, you think that these talks are merely an excuse to keep tabs on you the way a babysitter might keep tabs on children while their parents are away (and although thinking of yourself as a child is slightly better than thinking of yourself as a dog – at least you’re still human in this analogy – you aren’t a child, and your host is not your parent. Truth be told, you think _she_ would hate this analogy as much as you hate the dog one (you think she would prefer that of the dog)).

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” the brunette says by way of explanation. “You know what that is?”

“Yes.”

“So you know why you should be gone.” The brunette’s brows raise. Then she grins, smug, and leans back against what has become her arm of the sofa. “Buzz off for a little bit. It’s for your own good.”

You take a deep breath, fingers interlacing across the top of your book. Although your first conversation involved _Twelfth Night_ , you have since abandoned it and replaced it with one of the others. For now, you do not want to hear your name in the brunette’s mouth, even if it isn’t _you_ she is referring to. There’s a disconnect there – more than the one you already feel with your name – and it is safer, _easier_ , to read through one of his other books. The main problem with this is that whichever book you mean to discuss with her is gone during the day – taken with her to her flower shop – which means your host reads something else entirely.

This is likely a precaution – if the brunette has the book, then you can’t tuck your host away to read it. As though there aren’t other books around the house, as though you are in the habit of tucking her away while the brunette is at work.

“I know what it is,” you say, hesitant, “but I do not remember it. Perhaps _I_ would like to live through a Valentine’s Day.”

The brunette’s brows shoot up. “Oh, no, you don’t. I could _kill_ you if—”

”—if I weren’t already dead?” The smug smile traces your own lips – no, not your lips, _her_ lips; it is so hard to maintain that there is a difference when you are the one in control – and one brow raises. You jest. You _mean_ to jest. The brunette never takes it as such. She always takes you seriously. That’s how you know that she still does not like you: she is never truly comfortable or relaxed in your presence. “I won’t interrupt your romantic interlude. You didn’t need to ask. I haven’t interrupted them yet.”

The brunette opens her mouth as though to speak, but you continue on anyway, cutting her off, “I _do_ appreciate the forewarning, though. You cannot imagine how unsettling it is to be out taking a stroll only to begin hearing _that_ everywhere. It is _most_ unpleasant. You could be a tad bit softer.”

For a moment, you expect the brunette to grow angry with you, to tell you very sternly that you should not be paying any attention and to quit eavesdropping on them, but instead her eyes grow wide, she licks her lips, and she gives a great nod.

“Blimey.”

This is not the sort of _taking you seriously_ that you want.

“Well, I hope you were entertained.” The brunette takes a deep breath, places her hands on her knees, and lifts her cup of tea for one last sip of its contents. “We weren’t really in it for that, but if you’re getting your jollies listening in—”

“The entire point was that I was _not_ entertained and I was _not_ getting ‘my jollies’ in the slightest.” Your eyes narrow, and you stare at the brunette as she continues to sip at her by now quite empty cup. You press your lips together. “You’re _jesting_ with me, aren’t you?” you ask after a few moments of quiet, hesitant and unsure.

The brunette shrugs. “Whatever do you mean? I’m not in the habit of joking with ghosties. Why would I start now?”

“Because you are truly speaking with one.”

“Huh. Hadn’t noticed.” The brunette stands, brushes her pants, and stretches until her back just pops. “You want me to take your cup, or do you still need it?”

This, too, has become typical. The brunette cannot stay up near as long as you do, given that she still needs sleep while you do not, and while she does not like you maintaining your control over her love’s body while she sleeps, there is not much she can do to dissuade you. This request is the closest she gets to it – the notice that she is leaving and if you wish to better accommodate her, then you should leave as well.

You glance over the cup, over the book the two of you have been discussing, and then give a shake of your head. “Seeing as you are relieving me of any opportunity to read on the morrow, I shall use the time I have to indulge myself now.” Your lips curve into a smile, and your brows raise. “I trust that you will not be opposed to my decision?”

The brunette shrugs – which is not a _no_ , per say, but it is the closest you get to it. “Until next time, ghostie.”

“Yes,” you murmur, voice soft as always. “Until next time.”


	15. Chapter 15

Dani knows that she has had yet another dream of that room when she wakes Valentine’s Day morning. She can remember this one a lot more clearly than she has the others – just as before, the more she has the dream, the more she remembers it – and while her patterns of moving within the room have changed, no longer the repetition of waking, walking to the window, walking to the door, walking to the chest, and then beginning to look at herself in the vanity only to fade into another dream entirely (or waking from it abruptly to where she is _hopefully_ in bed and not curled up on the couch) – _while that pattern has changed_ , she has found that it has only been replaced with a new one.

Now that there are bookshelves, Dani finds herself drifting to them, browsing through the books, and picking one of them. It always feels as though the decision is made at random, and yet she finds herself picking the same book every time: _Twelfth Night_. Sometimes, she thinks she grabs a different book – she is _certain_ that she does – and yet _Twelfth Night_ is the one that finds its way into her hands again and again, with or without her wanting it. She opens the book and—

Usually, Dani doesn’t remember much past that point, but this time, she remembers: _Viola_ circled each and every time it shows up in the text. In the dream, her eyes narrow, and she looks through the book for any other notation that should suggest some sort of explanation for what she is seeing, and it is only when she flips to the very front of the book that she notices something is written in the top right hand corner of the first page in an ink so faded that it is nearly illegible. Yet somehow, the ink still shines where the light hits it, and she is drawn to it. She bends closer to read what is written—

And _that_ is the new turning point.

Where before, Dani would be thrust from the dream the moment she tried to see her face in the vanity, now she is thrust from it whenever she tries to read what is written in that upper right hand corner of the front page, in that faded black ink on the deep scarlet. If she didn’t know any better, she would think that the woman – _the creature_ – living within her is trying to prevent her from learning something while at the same time leaving clues _suggesting_ it, but she doesn’t want to think about that.

Now that she has remembered, though, Dani sits up sharp in the bed she shares with the love of her life, props her bare feet on the cold hardwood floor, and makes to rush from the bedroom into the living room, to the bookshelf where the real copy of _Twelfth Night_ sits, to see if, for some reason, the name is circled there the way it is in the dream, to see if, somehow, she can read the writing in the upper right hand corner – if it is even there in the first place.

But as soon as she makes to move out of their shared bed, Jamie wraps an arm around her waist and mushes her face against the small of her back. “Come back to bed,” she mumbles, arm tightening against the edge of her red shirt, some of her fingers flat against Dani’s skin where the shirt has halted itself just a little too high as she slept. “It’s too early.”

Dani stays where she is. One of her hands moves to Jamie’s, interlacing their fingers together. “You don’t even know what time it is,” she murmurs, glancing over her shoulder to where Jamie hasn’t moved either.

“Don’t have to know to know that it’s _too early_.” Jamie tugs on Dani’s waist. “It’s Valentine’s Day. Come back to bed.”

“If it’s really Valentine’s Day,” Dani says, turning to brush some of the curls out of Jamie’s face, “you _need_ to be up early. All of those flowers and bouquets and everything. We need to get going.”

It’s a moment – a very long moment, but a moment nevertheless – before Jamie seems to comprehend what Dani is saying, what she herself has said, and she pops up all at once, eyes that dark, hazy green that says she is _awake_ but only just. She stares at Dani. “It’s Valentine’s Day.”

“Yes.”

“You said it was _Valentine’s Day_.”

“ _Yes._ ” Dani can feel the smile creeping easy as anything. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Jamie doesn’t exactly _flinch_ away as Dani leans closer to give her a kiss. It’s more that she has started to move in sudden, quick, _focused_ movements just as Dani bent towards her. “It’s Valentine’s Day. I’m running late. _We’re running late, Poppins._ ”

Dani’s head tilts to one side. “You don’t even know what time it is!”

“Doesn’t matter. It is Valentine’s Day, and we run a flower shop. _We are always late._ ”

* * *

Dani wasn’t sure that she exactly _believed_ Jamie that morning, but by the time they make it to the shop – a full two hours earlier than Dani is normally there, which is still an hour earlier than _Jamie_ normally gets there – she becomes aware with the line of people already standing outside waiting on them that this is, indeed, the case. She suddenly feels a pang of pity for whatever it was Eddie had to do when he wanted to get _her_ flowers so long ago, and that pang of pity is quickly followed by one of regret and guilt. Although his ghost doesn’t seem to follow her around any longer (he seems to have accepted who she is at the same moment she decided to do something about it), it is still hard to brush away the fact that if they hadn’t had their argument at that exact moment _he would still be alive_.

Of course, there are other complications that might have come with that. If Eddie was still alive, Dani might have been outed to both of their families against her will. She hopes he wouldn’t have done that, but she has no way of knowing that now. Even if he hadn’t, she wouldn’t have felt the need to get out of the country the way she had. She would likely never have gone to Bly, and not going to Bly, she would likely never have met Jamie.

Dani can’t imagine her life without Jamie.

(She can easily enough imagine it without the creature who still lives in her mind, one who has been surprisingly quiet during the daylight hours recently, even though Dani knows from the repetitive dream that she has likely been active while she sleeps.)

The worst isn’t even imagining her life without Jamie – it is imagining Miles still with Peter within him, Flora potentially being taken—

No, what happened was overall for the better, even though Dani hates to admit it – and would certainly never say it to her mother or to Eddie’s family if she ever actually _said it_ at all.

So it is a pang of pity, followed by a mixed pang of regret and guilt, that hits her when she sees the long line, and with those in mind, Dani sets herself to work.

And there is so much work that all of those are quickly forgotten.

* * *

Jamie takes Dani’s hand after she flips the shop’s sigh to _Closed_ and gives it a gentle squeeze. “We’re free now,” she says with a sigh, lips curving into that cheeky smile Dani has come to love. “What do you say to a bit of adventuring?”

Dani brushes the dirt from her clothes with her free hand, but she meets Jamie’s eyes nevertheless. “You really want to go out, after all that work? You’re not _exhausted_?” _She_ certainly feels that way. Although she helps out in the store fairly often, she hasn’t had a day quite like today. Normally the holidays aren’t this jam-packed, and even then, Jamie does most of the heavy lifting herself. (Quite literally. As strong as Dani might be on a mental and emotional level, she has noodle arms. She cannot lift trees. She cannot lift _tree_. She’s better at other aspects of the job.)

It has been a long day. The sun started going down, the sky shifting from light blue to lavender and rose, about an hour ago, and now the sky has grown quite dark, although not to the point of star-studded. Dani’s lower back aches, and she presses her hands against it, stretching back in an attempt to make it even slightly better. Not much doing. “ _I_ am. I could just curl up with a book and a mug of hot chocolate and be _perfectly splendid_.” She gives Jamie a little grin of her own.

“Don’t say that,” Jamie groans. “I can’t quit hearing Flora, and you know she said it every third word.” She sighs. “If you’d rather curl up with a cuppa, that’s all well and good, but it’s Valentine’s. Don’t you _want_ to go out, Poppins?”

Dani considers this for a moment. Valentine’s Day might be _the_ day for romance and romantic sentiment and chocolates and roses and other bouquets (as she knows full well by this point), but she doesn’t really feel any particularly strong draw to go out and _Valentine’s extravaganza_. Maybe it’s that she’s grown accustomed to appreciating and living each moment as fully as she can, even if it is working in the shop with Jamie, even if it is curling up with her on the couch and turning the telly on – those moments might be small, but they make up the pattern of her days, and in the end, she would rather have those quiet moments spent with Jamie in the normalcy of their lives than big, loud, overwhelming, _overbearing_ flash moments.

Jamie feels the same way, she knows. That’s why they so rarely _have_ those big dramatic moments. They don’t need them. Bly was enough of a dramatic moment to last a lifetime.

However long her lifetime ends up being, with this beast prowling around in the back of her mind.

When she thinks of the beast, Dani tries to think of the woman whose face  
she imagined, but it is hard.

Not because the image doesn’t remain in her mind. She can definitely see it.  
She could bring it up now, if she wanted. The problem is that…. Well, it’s  
that she doesn’t _want_ to imagine a woman. She _wants_ to imagine a beast  
because that is what it is. That is what prowls about in her mind. That is  
what wants to devour her. It is somehow _worse_ if a woman, if a real woman,  
is doing all of those things.

A faceless beast? It’s just doing what’s in its nature.

A human being? Flesh and blood human? A being full of rage?

That is far harder to deal with.

“I’m happy just to be here with you.” Dani brushes her fingers along Jamie’s skin. “But if _you_ want to go out,” she begins to grin, “we can go out. Where were you thinking? The diner? The bar? Most places are going to be _a little_ full.”

“You’ll find out when we get there.” Jamie wraps her arms around Dani’s waist and pulls her towards her, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Don’t worry,” she murmurs. “There won’t be a lot of people. It’ll be just us. Mostly.”

“ _Mostly?_ ” Dani echoes, staring at her. “What do you mean _mostly_?”

Jamie grins. “You’ll see.”

* * *

Dani stares in the mirror before they leave. She’s clean, she’s changed, she’s made herself look _nicer_ than she did right when they left the shop. Jamie’s told her enough to know that she doesn’t have to dress up all fancy – that it’s probably better that she doesn’t – so she’s fine in a white dress covered with a little floral pattern, with a jean jacket she’s stolen from Jamie’s closet (she has plenty of them, and it smells like Jamie, which Dani loves).

But she looks in the mirror and she expects something else. She isn’t sure what she expects. It’s just her. Eddie hasn’t shown up behind her in years at this point, and the creature—

She hasn’t felt anything from the creature at all today. She expects that she will at some point, like a thunder cloud hanging over the horizon with jagged forks of lightning close enough that you can see it heading toward you and know that you will be hit but you cannot guess at how bad it will be. Maybe that is what she is trying to see in the mirror – not herself, but the faceless creature.

Her lips press together, and she looks at her one green eye. Jamie is right – it _is_ harder to notice her heterochromia now. The green may be a different color, but from far enough away it’s harder to tell than the muddy dirt brown was. That’s a bonus. Maybe, if she looks close enough—

For a moment, Dani feels like she is falling, and in that moment, she can see another woman standing just behind her in the mirror. She isn’t faceless, as Dani thought she would be, and she isn’t _real_ in the sense that Eddie had normally felt real and the image of the creature had normally felt real. Instead, she is semi-transparent. She’s taller than Dani is by almost a full head, and she stands just behind her, one hand resting gently on her shoulder.

And her eyes—

“Dani?”

Jamie pops her head into the bathroom and stares at her. “You almost ready, Poppins?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m ready.” Dani looks into the mirror, and the image is gone. “Let’s go.”

* * *

“Okay, put this on.”

Dani gives Jamie a blank look. “I just did my hair, and you want me to put a bandana on over all of it?” She raises one eyebrow. “Not that it won’t be cute, I can make it cute, but—”

“No, no, _as a blindfold_.” Jamie purses her lips. “You make _everything_ cute, but bandanas aren’t really your style, Poppins.” She reaches over and pushes some of Dani’s hair out of her face, fingers just barely brushing along her skin.

Dani laughs. “They’re more _your_ thing.”

“Yeah, well, got to keep my hair out of my face somehow.” Jamie holds the red paisley bandana out for Dani to take. “C’mon. Blindfold up.”

Dani stares at the blindfold and takes a deep breath. She doesn’t know why she’s scared. No, she knows _exactly_ why she is scared. She doesn’t like the dark as much as she once did, and she certainly doesn’t like being tucked away where she cannot see the world. This isn’t that – isn’t even _close_ to that – but she still feels the shiver of it along her spine. Still, she takes the bandana anyway, rolls it into a long thin line, and wraps it around her eyes, tying it behind her head. “Alright,” she says, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “Now what?”

“Now, you trust me.”

“I _always_ trust you.” Dani feels what she hopes is Jamie’s hand snaking into her own. Their fingers interlace together, and she can’t help but smile. The touch comforts her, grounds her in the present moment. She feels as safe as she can. The great thing about the bandana blindfold is that, even though it covers her eyes, even though she can’t see much ahead of her, she can still glance down and see her shoes, see the sidewalk, see the little bits of grass or weeds or dandelions that always seem to poke through even the smallest cracks. Most of them are dead right now, of course, given that it is still winter, but this is one of the warmer days where the snow doesn’t cover everything.

Jamie gives her hand a gentle squeeze and then tugs her forward. “We’re going on a walk, you and me.”

“We’re _walking_ there?” Dani echoes, her voice tight. “You’re having me walk down the street _in a blindfold_?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll protect you. It’ll be okay.” Jamie doesn’t mention cars that hit stray walkers; she doesn’t have to. The image still melts into Dani’s head – and has an easier time doing so because there isn’t much she can see to distract herself from it. She bites her lower lip and nods once. Jamie’s thumb runs along the back of her hand, circling in a comforting gesture. “It isn’t far.”

Dani nods again. “Okay. I trust you.”

Still – with her eyes covered, it feels like Dani can hear everything so much louder than she could before. There aren’t a lot of cars that pass them by, but when they do, it’s a very, very loud zoom, so loud that she feels like she’ll get hit, even though she knows – _she knows_ – that she won’t. Her grip grows tighter on Jamie’s hand. It’s instinct. She doesn’t even realize that she’s doing it until Jamie gives her a little squeeze back. “You okay there, Poppins?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just fine.” Dani bites her lower lip and then shakes her head. “No, I’m not, I’m sorry. It’s just…. It’s _hard_ , you know. Busy street. Loud cars. _Can’t see._ I trust you, I do, I just—”

“Eddie.” Jamie completes her sentence, says the name that Dani’s been trying to avoid. She sighs, but it’s not disappointment with her. It’s never disappointment with her because Jamie’s never really disappointed with her. “Do you need to take the bandana off? Will it help?”

Dani licks her lower lip. It _would_ help. It would definitely help. But she can’t help but want to follow whatever plan it is that Jamie has in mind for the evening. “It’s okay,” she says, forcing herself to smile encouragingly. “I’ll be okay. Really. It won’t be for that long, and I’ve been mostly good, and _it’s hard_ , but hard things are sometimes worth it in the end, and—”

She _squeaks_ the slightest bit as Jamie’s lips find hers. It’s too many things at once – the unexpected kiss out of nowhere, the blindfold providing sensory deprivation so _oof, it’s nice_ , the fact that they are in public but she can’t see anyone looking at them _and it’s Valentine’s so people probably expect this sort of thing_ —

The correct response is to swoon, and Dani does, she swoons, and she feels better, and that is what Jamie wants. She presses her lips together as she steps back ever so slightly. Her cheeks are growing hot. She’s blushing. She bites her lower lip. “Was that the surprise?” she asks. “Can I take this off now?”

“No,” Jamie answers. “Just a few more minutes. Can you make it a few more minutes, Poppins?”

Dani nods. As she follows Jamie, the other girl still holding tight to her hand, she asks, “Why do you still call me that? I mean, it’s not like I’m watching kids anymore. I’m not a nanny. And I was never really magical.”

“ _I_ think you’re pretty magical.”

“ _Thanks._ ” Dani sticks her tongue out, although she can’t know if Jamie’s looking at her or not. “Is it just…oh, I don’t know.”

“It’s a cute nickname. You’re a cute girl. It _fits_ you.” Jamie pauses – and she stops, so Dani stops with her. “Rebecca Jessel may have been _perfectly splendid_ , but you’re actually _practically perfect_ , so it’s the right name for you. Besides.” She reaches over and brushes her fingertips along that ticklish spot just above Dani’s hips, and Dani jumps with a little squeak. “There’s that.”

“What does that have to do with it?” Dani squeaks, wrapping her free arm around her waist to protect her sides from further poking. “That’s got nothing to do with anything!”

“ _You’re poppin’ a squeak._ ” Jamie gives Dani’s hand another squeeze and starts forward again. When she steps forward, there appears to be the slightest bit of a step down, and Dani is careful when she moves forward as well. It’s the difference between concrete sidewalk and tar roads. She holds even tighter to Jamie, but there’s nothing to be afraid of. She knows that. “Not much farther now, love,” Jamie says, and of course – of course – she’s right. Only a little further, and they’re there – wherever there is. Jamie takes both of Dani’s hands in her own – and Dani imagines she has turned around to face her. “You can take off your blindfold now.”

Dani grins. “How am I supposed to do that with you holding my hands?” she asks, and she leans forward just enough for their noses to brush together. Forgive her this public display of affection – she’s thinking about consequences, and she’s pushing those thoughts behind her. It’s Valentine’s Day. They are allowed.

Jamie presses a gentle kiss to her lips, and as she does so, she reaches up and pulls Dani’s blindfold up and off. She runs her fingers through Dani’s hair, half mussing it up and half putting it back into place, and then steps back with a wry grin. At first, Dani doesn’t know what she’s supposed to be looking _at_ , doesn’t really want to be looking at anything other than Jamie’s expression – her happiness, her sheer _joy_ at being here together, at doing this – whatever it is they are doing – but then her gaze moves from the love of her life to their surroundings, and she can’t help but gasp.

Their house is within walking distance of many things – some they like, some they don’t much care for, and some they’ve been _meaning_ to visit but just haven’t had the time or the energy to do yet. Jamie has taken them to the latter of these: a park with a garden and a greenhouse that they’ve been meaning to visit and kept putting off and putting off and now, finally, they can’t put off any longer.

The trees outside are covered with snow, but there are fairy lights strung through and around their branches, lighting them up from the inside. Some of the trees are evergreen and have less lights, some of them have lost their leaves for the season and so the lights are tucked in and tight around their trunks and branches. There are different colors among all of them – most glow a bright white, but some are red and others are pink for the Valentine’s season. Flowers – blooming even in winter, which Dani _knows_ is a thing that can happen and _does_ happen but she hasn’t really seen outside of their little shop (Jamie has been meaning to plant more flowers in their backyard and around the front of the house, she just hasn’t yet) – line the pathway where they have been sheltered from the snow, leading around through the rest of the gardens, to the rest of the park, and then into the green house itself. Unlike the lights, the flowers aren’t all red and white and pink, but that makes them even dearer to Dani, who likes the colors of the holiday but likes other colors, too, and wouldn’t want the gardens to be decked out for one holiday for the entirety of winter.

Of course, they _aren’t_ exactly alone. There are other couples walking through the gardens, too, but they are more focused on themselves than they are other couples, just the same way that Dani expects she and Jamie will be shortly.

“You like it?” Jamie asks, her hands shoved into her jeans pockets, leaning forward on the heel of one of her boots. Her head tilts downward – she’s _sheepish_ , looking up every so often as though to gauge Dani’s reaction.

Dani crosses the distance between them easily enough and wraps her arms around her, kissing her cheek. “I love it! It’s _so much better_ than just sitting on the couch!” She squeezes Jamie closer to her. “And we can come back here later, too, can’t we?”

“’Course we can.” Jamie kisses her properly, beaming. She brushes Dani’s hair back behind one ear. “We should get inside, eh? ‘S pretty cold out here.”

Dani shrugs, holding Jamie even tighter. “I don’t know. I’m pretty warm right here. I think I could stay here for hours.” She grins at Jamie’s displeased expression and feigns an unhappy sigh. “ _But_ if _you’re_ cold, I _suppose_ we can go inside.” She drops her arms but keeps hold of Jamie’s hand, interlacing their fingers. “Lead on! Where do you want to go first?”

* * *

Later on, in bed, Dani can feel Jamie keeping a close eye on her. She’s exhausted – she’ll be sore in the morning; she’s sore _now_ – but she’s happy. Happier than she can ever imagine being. Happier than she’s ever been. She curls over onto one side, moving closer against Jamie, and sighs happily. “I didn’t know Valentine’s could be like this,” she murmurs, staring at Jamie. “It’s actually really nice.”

“It is, huh.” Jamie takes a deep breath, seeming to relax. She smiles at Dani and turns, brushing their noses together. Then she curves one arm around Dani’s waist, pulling her against her. “And _you’re_ going to stay right here with me,” she murmurs, pressing another kiss to her lips.

Something in Dani is confused by the words. Her eyes narrow. “What do you mean by that?” she asks, staring at Jamie. “Aren’t I _always_ here with you?”

Jamie presses her lips together. “You’ve been wondering more as of late,” she says, voice soft, “but I had a talk with the ghostie, and you’re staying right here.”

A chill fills the center of Dani’s chest, and she stares blankly at Jamie. “You had a talk with her?” she asks. Suddenly, it is hard to breathe. “You _talked_ with her? What did you talk about? What could you _possibly_ have wanted to talk about with her?” She sits up in bed, pulling the blankets around her as she searches for her shirt. “Was it to leave me alone? Was that it? Was it to quit tucking me away and to let me live my life with you? Because if it wasn’t that, then I don’t see why you’d want to talk with her about anything.”

“Look, Dani,” Jamie starts to say as Dani pulls on her shirt. “You’ve got this ghostie who clearly likes to wander. Maybe she just wants some talking to. Maybe that helps her understand—”

“Understand _what?_ ” Dani says, pulling her pants on. She stares at Jamie. “Understand what? That it’s _my_ body she’s using? _My_ life she’s _devouring?_ Only she already knows that, doesn’t she? _Feasting on me._ That’s what she called it. _Feasting._ ” She brushes her hands along her pants and stares at Jamie. She interrupts her before Jamie has the chance to say anything further. “You just stay in here. I’ll go to the couch, won’t I? Just like I would if she _were_ tucking me away? Only you don’t really mind that, do you?”

“ _Dani—_ ”

But Dani’s gone, leaving the bedroom. She curls up on the sofa, wrapping her arms around herself, and takes a deep shuddering breath. “I don’t know if you can hear me, creature,” she whispers into the darkness, “but I hate you. I hate you, and you can’t have me. I need you to know that.”

But the creature says nothing – _does_ nothing. In fact, it is as silent as it has been all day. Dani isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or not. Right now, she just feels very much alone.


	16. Chapter 16

You do not wake up in their bed. That is the first note of confusion.

You wake up on the sofa. That is the _second_ note of confusion.

You wake up with a pillow and covered with blankets. That is the **third** note of confusion.

All of this would seem to suggest that your host has decided to sleep on the couch instead of in the bed with her partner, which does not bode well for you in the slightest. But if there is a problem with you, then your host would have rebuilt or restructured the obstacles trying to prevent you from tucking her away. She hasn’t done _anything_ with that yet, so maybe this is less a problem with _you_ and more a problem with _her partner_ , which still doesn’t bode well.

You were told to stay away so that they could have a happy Valentine’s Day. This does not speak of a happy Valentine’s Day.

And it isn’t your business, but—

No. It _is_ your business. You live here with them just as much as any other roommate. They might say otherwise, but you know that you do. And as much as they both might not like you, you have come to expect a certain sort of normalcy – a certain pattern of living, one that involves reading good Shakespeare and drinking good tea (and sometimes hot chocolate, but this less often). Something in you suggests that you know something of relationships – you had a daughter, which meant you likely had a husband of some sort or fashion, so the knowledge is there, even if you can’t exactly remember it.

Let’s not pretend this is entirely altruistic. You are meant to have tea and Shakespeare and conversation with the brunette. Regardless of whether they are fighting or not, you want your conversation. Even if it isn’t on Shakespeare.

You push yourself off of the sofa and pad on bare feet to their bedroom. (At least you are not in a night gown. You think you have had enough of night gowns. You think you’ve had enough of night gowns for your entire eternity. Someone should tell your host that you would like some new clothes. You’re not sure exactly how she would do that, but you should let her know. Unfortunately, letting her know would likely end in _absolutely no_ new clothes along with less of everything she could make less. Maybe better that you say nothing to her.)

When you make it to their bedroom, you stand just inside, cross your arms, and stare at the brunette. You take a deep breath. “I know you aren’t asleep.”

“You’re not yourself, Poppins,” the brunette mumbles into her pillowcase, refusing to look up at you. “Go away.”

You ignore her not entirely kind request and move to sit on the edge of their bed. “Truer words could not have been spoken.”

“I told you to _go_.” The brunette is speaking through gritted teeth now, as though you care about her frustrations with you.

You scoot against the headboard, and she sits up just enough to glare angrily at you. But your arms are still crossed, and you raise your brows at her. “I refuse to go anywhere until you tell me what transpired between the two of you.”

The brunette snorts and flips onto her back, staring at the ceiling. She crosses her arms beneath her head. “Guess you’re going to be stuck here a long time, then, ghostie.”

“Perhaps.” You lift one corner of your lips in a half-smile. “But the longer I’m here, the longer your lady love is tucked away. I do not believe that you would much enjoy that.”

The brunette glares at you again. “You threatening me?” Her brows raise. “You threatening _Dani?_ ”

“Why should I threaten either of you, dear child, when you could simply explain the situation to me and ask for my advice?” You keep your eyes on her, waiting for any sort of suggestion that she will talk with you. “Even Romeo and Juliet had Friar Lawrence.”

The brunette continues to glare at you. “If I remember correctly, he gave them _shitty_ advice. _Pretend that you are dead and run away together; there’s no chance that can go wrong._ ”

“I do not plan on telling either of you to kill yourselves. The situation is not that dire.” You try to meet her eyes, but she avoids your gaze. “Is it? Have I misread this? Or is sleeping on the couch a normal thing when you aren’t fighting?”

“Sleeping on the couch is a normal thing when _you_ leave her there.” But there is no bite to the brunette’s words, and she sighs. “You’re really not going to leave me alone, are you?”

You stare at her and offer only the smallest of smiles. “What is the point of being an immortal ghost if you don’t use your power to do some good in the world?”

The brunette stares at her. “I seem to remember you using your power to do a lot of _bad_ in the world. Guess trying to even that out is a spot better than what you’ve been doing.”

“I do not remember doing anything of the sort.”

“Of course, you don’t.” The brunette rolls her eyes. She sits up in bed and hunches forward, crossing her legs and propping her bare hands in the hollow between them. Then she gives you a curious look. “You’re really trying to help?”

You don’t even think this over before you give her a firm nod. “I’m bored. What else would you suggest that I do with my apparently infinite time?”

“Teach Dani how to make better tea,” the brunette says, and she snorts, a little smile crossing her face. You can see why your host finds her beautiful. It’s not an overwhelming gut punch the way your own beauty once was (and still _is_ , when you are locked in your little room), but it is certainly there in these little moments with her, tucked just in the corner of that smile. “Alright, ghostie, but I should warn you – this _is_ your fault. We wouldn’t be having this fight if not for you.”

You sigh. “Yes, yes, all of the problems in your lives are my fault, blame it all on the undead ghost, _she_ can take it, don’t take responsibility for _any_ of your mistakes, you _certainly_ don’t make them.” You meet her eyes and raise one brow. “As you kids say, _spill_.”

The brunette laughs again – a sharp bark of a sound with no merriment in it – and then she pushes herself out of their bed. “Not in here, ghostie. If I’m going to tell you everything, it’s going to be over a good cuppa tea.” She looks you over and tilts her head to one side. “You’ve made enough of them for me. Think it’s high time I return the favor.”

* * *

You curl up on what has become your corner of the couch, your teacup in one hand and a saucer in the other. The blankets are spread across the couch over both you and the brunette, although she makes sure to stay on the opposite corner, just as she always does. But _you_ have the additional comfort of your host’s pillow curved around your back, which adds a nicer feel than the plain thick of the couch’s arm. You could get used to this.

The brunette watches as you take the first sip of your tea. “Good, isn’t it?”

You raise a brow. “I made it myself. Just like you always make yours _yourself_. I do not understand why this would be any better than it normally would be.”

But the brunette just rolls her eyes and smiles as she takes a sip of her own tea. “Dani doesn’t much like me talking with you.”

This doesn’t surprise you. Is it supposed to have surprised you? Because it doesn’t surprise you.

You take another sip of your tea and wait for a further explanation. There has to be one. That can’t be all. But as you sit and wait and watch the brunette and she continues to not say anything, you pause, place your teacup back on its saucer with a little clink, and ask, “Is that all?”

“That would be our fight, yes. We’re not supposed to be talking.” She glances over to you and gestures – one finger at you, then back to her. “You and me. This conversation? Not happening.”

You glance down to your tea and sigh. “She will forgive you eventually. It is in her nature. Although I do not believe you have done anything in need of forgiving. There is nothing wrong with you talking with me.”

“Oh?” The brunette raises an eyebrow. “And how would _you_ feel if a ghostie took over _your_ body and started talking with _your_ ….” She waves a hand. “ _Whoever._ ”

You press your lips together, and your head tilts ever so gently to one side. “I do not know,” you admit. You know that you are staring off into the distance, but you are trying to remember. This isn’t the first time you’ve tried. It doesn’t end any better than the last. “I was married when I was alive, I believe. I had a daughter. She meant the world to me.” You shake your head once and then look back at the brunette. “I am not able to recollect more than that. My memories aren’t what they used to be, you know.”

The brunette rolls her eyes. “I know.” She hunches forward, holding her tea between both hands. “You really can’t remember anything, can you?”

“I remember my name,” you say, voice soft. “Only just. I remember my room feeling like a jail cell. I remember being locked away somewhere. I remember I had a daughter, which means I _must_ have had a husband. I don’t remember whether I loved him or not.” You smile. “But I remember my name.”

“What is it?” the brunette asks, glancing over to you. “What’s your name?”

You stare at her unblinking. “Would you truly like to know?”

“Sure.”

You watch the brunette. It couldn’t hurt to tell her. You doubt that she would actually _use_ your name. She seems the sort who tends more toward nicknames. Your host is Poppins. You are Ghostie. So what would be the point in telling her?

Yet a part of you aches to answer the question. Even if she doesn’t use it at all, even if she only uses it once in a blue moon, that’s _something_. Only one person is better than none at all.

“Viola,” you say, finally, breaking the glance and looking down into the hot liquid swirling about in your cup. “My name is Viola.”

“Well, Ms. Viola No-Last-Name,” the brunette says, and at your name leaving her lips – leaving _anyone’s_ lips – something inside of you tightens just so, “I’m Jamie. It’s not a pleasure to meet you. Wish we had better circumstances. Some without killing would be nice.”

You stare at her and blink. “I do not remember killing anyone.”

“You don’t remember a lot of things, ghostie.” The brunette stands and stretches back just enough until her lower back pops. “You finish your drink. I have some thinking to do.” She gives you a little nod. “Don’t bring Dani back to bed when you’re done. I don’t think she would appreciate that. Just leave her where you found her.”

You watch her carefully. “And what are you going to do, when she wakes? Will you continue this fight?”

“I don’t know.” The brunette – _Jamie_ , she has introduced herself to you now, and so you feel more comfortable using her name – glances over to you. “I’ll figure something out. You weren’t much help with that.”

“I did not claim that I would be. I do not have enough memories of the real world to be much help. I only suggested that I would do a better job than Friar Lawrence. Besides,” and here you hesitate, considering your words carefully. “Perhaps it is time that she and I have a talk. Face to face.” You let out a breath. “I know she does not like me. I still have yet to figure out why she wanted me at all.”

Jamie blinks a couple of times. “ _Wanted_ you?” she echoes, confused. “What do you mean _wanted_ you?”

“I was as close to nothing as I could be,” you say, trying to remember, “and she called me. She invited me to be…not alone anymore. I was so tired of being alone, you must understand, and I thought…. I thought that she wanted me.” You sigh and brush a hand through her blonde hair. “Perhaps I was confused. Perhaps she did not truly understand what she was doing. Perhaps she did not want me at all.” You smile, a soft thing. “Hope is my downfall, you must understand. I’m stubborn when I must be, but my stubbornness is often fueled by hope.” Your eyes narrow, and you look away. “I just often hope in the wrong thing – the wrong people.” You laugh and look back up at Jamie. “I don’t know how I know that. Only that I do.”

Jamie doesn’t reach over, doesn’t touch your hand comfortingly. She only looks at you. “Sounds like a memory to me,” she says. “I know what it’s like to be stubborn. I think we’re all a little like that.” She gives you a nod. “I’ll see if I can talk to Dani about that. She won’t want to talk to you, but I’ll see what I can do.” Another look. “You enjoy your tea. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

You watch as she leaves. Tomorrow is a nice idea, but you aren’t sure. Given the option between making up with the love of your life and continuing to talk with the ghost who lives within her, you think you would stop talking with the ghost. The answer seems straightforward enough. And given that your host and the brunette – _Jamie_ – both don’t much like you, well, it’s very clear to you.

This time, you won’t put your hope somewhere you’ll only be disappointed.

Instead, you make your own hope.

It has been a long time since you have written anything, and while the pen still feels quite uncomfortable in your hand, you force yourself to try it anyway. The weight is off. Your writing is unreadable, even to you, and you know what you wrote. You try again and again until, finally, you think you have found something that just might convey what is needed.

You take a deep breath and glance up. The light is just beginning to crest over the horizon – you can see the sun through the living room window – which means it is almost time for your host to be waking. Instead of putting away your book, you tuck the note you have written inside the front cover, just next to the receipt paper that you know she uses to mark her place. It will be impossible for her to miss. At least, that is your expectation.

A quick read-through of your words suggests that they will convey exactly what you intend. The problem is that they will likely convey something you _do not_ intend as well. Words are slippery things, and while you might once have had a better command of them, it feels like that must have been forgotten as well.

Still, you have done your best.

If it is not enough, you may have to consider other tactics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a head's up - because Nanowrimo is starting tomorrow and my writing focus is (partially) shifting to another project, there may be a longer wait time between chapters on this fic. My apologies!
> 
> Basically, I've been writing ~2k a day on this fic since the 10th, and I'll be...basically halving that. So there might be an extra day or two between updates. I still have my two chapter buffer, and I'm still planning on continuing to write this! Just...slower.
> 
> (I think I've also hit a bit of a turning point in this fic - in the next chapter, roughly - and I think I'm getting closer to an ending than before. That doesn't mean this is necessarily closer to being done! Just means I think I crossed the halfway point - possibly more? IDK.)


	17. Chapter 17

Dani doesn’t mean to hold a grudge.

Really, she doesn’t. That is _not_ the sort of person she is. In fact, she’s already forgiven Jamie. She’s actually frustrated with herself for that because she _wants_ to still be upset with her. She _wants_ an apology, and not one that feels…like it’s more an apology for making her mad than it is an actual apology for Jamie’s actions. A part of Dani is fairly certain that her girlfriend isn’t sorry for communicating with the beast, that she’s only sorry that Dani is reacting the way she is – and that’s not the same thing. She wants Jamie to be sorry for the action! Not for making her mad!

And, despite all of that, Dani can’t find it in her heart to stay mad at her. She’s frustrated. It’s a little crack in their happiness.

And yet, Dani can’t help but still be mad at the beast in the jungle lying in wait for her. Its intrusion into her life seems to be growing, and no matter what Dani does, it feels like she can’t stop it – the beast _is_ devouring her, a little piece at a time, and she _hates_ it.

But it can’t have this. It can’t have Jamie. It can’t make her so mad at Jamie that she won’t be with her. She won’t let it have that. But she hasn’t been able to stop it from tucking her away while she sleeps, and there’s no way of knowing if the creature has continued to talk with Jamie – and, if it has, what they have been talking about.

Truth be told, Dani doesn’t think the creature has been able to talk much about anything at all. Maybe it _had_ used _Romeo and Juliet_ to communicate with Jamie and Owen in December, but it hasn’t tried to talk with anyone else since then. In fact, it has been almost quiet. _Too_ quiet. She should have expected it to pull something like this. It just means that it’s gaining strength – that it’s getting closer to finally, like Peter with Miles—

_No. She is not thinking about that. She is not thinking like that. She is still here._

When Dani wakes up that morning, every thought in her mind is to make up with her girlfriend. She pushes herself up off the arm of the couch and rubs her arm across her eyes, trying to push the creepers out of them. She yawns and stretches. Couch sleeping is _not_ the greatest. She’s already sore, and it’s only been a couple of days. She can’t imagine what she’ll feel like if she does this every day. Also – why is _she_ the one sleeping on the couch? _She_ hasn’t done anything wrong!

See, this is what we mean about Dani not being able to hold a grudge. She can’t even get properly _mad_.

But as she stretches, Dani knocks a book off of the arm of the couch, just past where she had been resting her head. She flinches as it lands.

_No._

She’d suspected as much, but it doesn’t make her feel any better to know for a fact that it is actually happening, that the creature is still tucking her away and taking her body while she sleeps. What if it has been doing other things with her body while it’s in control? What if—?

She can’t think like this. That won’t do anyone any good.

Dani picks the book up off the ground. It’s one that she, too, has been reading. Okay, so maybe she’s jumping a bit to conclusions. She just didn’t put the book on the side table before she went to sleep. No harm, no foul. Her eyes glance over to the window, where the sun is high in the sky. She’s overslept. For the first time in a very long time, she’s overslept. She takes a deep breath and places the book on the side table where it belongs. She can get back to reading it some other time.

Right now, she needs to get to the flower shop and make nice with her girlfriend. As much as she can, anyway.

* * *

The bell above the door dings once as Dani enters the shop. She hesitates just inside, catching the glimpse of something _wrong_ on the glass of the front door, but she pushes past it, forcing herself to focus on Jamie instead of what she may or may not be seeing in her reflection. Jamie glances up as the bell dings. She smiles when she sees Dani, but where normally the smile is bright and excited and engaging, now it seems hesitant and uncertain. “We fighting today, Poppins?”

“No,” Dani says, but she doesn’t look downward as though ashamed of herself. “I’m tired of fighting.” She meets Jamie’s eyes and presses her lips together as she walks forward. “Let’s just…not talk about it, okay?” She tries to give Jamie a little smile, but she can see that Jamie’s has faded. Her brows furrow. “What?” Dani moves closer, standing just on the other side of the checkout counter. “What’s wrong?”

Jamie scratches the back of her neck. “We’ve got to have a talk. I don’t want to, and I know _you_ don’t want to, but—”

Dani’s eyes narrow. “Jamie, you asked me if we were fighting, and when I said _no_ , I thought that meant _we weren’t going to be fighting_.”

“Talking doesn’t have to mean fighting.” Jamie meets her eyes. “But fighting means something’s broke. When something’s broke, you got to fix it or it’ll just break worse.”

Dani sighs. “And if talking’s just going to break it worse? Does that mean things are just…beyond repair?”

“Nothing’s beyond repair, Dani.” Jamie reaches over and takes one of her hands, giving it a gentle squeeze. “We’re just talking. No anger, no fighting. Just talking. We’re friends. We love each other. We can talk with each other, right?”

Dani takes a deep breath and nods her agreement. She wants to say _not right now_ , she wants to push this discussion off until much later, but she doesn’t think she can deal with the dread of having the _we need to talk_ hanging over her head as well as whatever is going on with her beast. There’s only so much pressure she can take at once. She needs her relationship with Jamie to continue to be a comforting constant, the way it has been for so long. If this conversation is the only thing standing in the way of that, then she wants it over and done with as quickly as possible.

Jamie gestures to their open sign, and Dani walks over to it, slowly flipping it over to _Closed_. She doesn’t put any specific time on their return clock – there’s no way of knowing how long this conversation will take – and then she follows Jamie slowly to the back. Still – as much as she doesn’t want it, the dread lingers. She hates it, hates that the beast is doing _this_ as well, as though no matter how much she tries, it is still tearing away at her life – even without having to tuck her away to do it.

No, Dani isn’t mad at Jamie anymore. She’s mad at the beast lying in wait in the jungle within her. That’s where her anger should rightly be focused, and that’s where she lets it stay.

Jamie shuts the door to the back room behind them and takes Dani’s hands in her own. “Now, I know you’re going to be wanting to interrupt, but I want you to hear what I’m saying before you say anything, okay?”

Dani takes a deep breath. She runs her thumb along the back of Jamie’s hand and then interlaces their fingers before nodding once. “I can’t promise I’ll like what you have to say,” she says, voice soft and firm, “but I’ll listen to it. Whatever it is.” She tries to smile. It doesn’t feel quite right, but she tries anyway. Then she searches Jamie’s eyes, hesitant. “So. Tell me.”

“I want you to talk with your beast in the jungle.”

Dani takes a sharp breath, but when Jamie tilts her head to one side, she presses her lips together. She’d agreed to listen to what her love has to say, without interrupting. She can do that. _She can do that._ At the very least, anyway.

Jamie meets her eyes and tries to hold her gaze. “I know you don’t want to. I know she’s your beast. But I think Flora is right. Your beast was a person once, and I think, living in you, she might be more woman than beast.” She smiles, a soft thing. “I think it’s impossible to know you and not be made better just being around you. And this thing is living _with_ you.” Jamie reaches over and taps the center of Dani’s chest. “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, Poppins. That means with her, too.”

Dani waits, making sure that Jamie is finished, before she says, finally, “You know it tried to kill me, right?”

“I don’t think she remembers that.”

Dani squints. “How can it not remember that?” Then she shakes her head. “Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.” She sighs and looks away, but makes sure to keep one of her hands in Jamie’s. “I don’t want to talk with it.” She presses her lips together. “It tried to kill me. It almost killed Flora. I think it _will_ kill me if it gets the chance, and talking with it sounds like a pretty good chance for it to just _devour_ me.” She looks back at Jamie. “You really want to risk that?”

Jamie gives her head a little shake. “I don’t think it’s a risk, Dani. I really don’t.”

It takes a minute – Dani doesn’t want to ask, but she needs to know – but she finally says, “How long have you been talking with it?”

“Couple of weeks.” Jamie looks up and meets her eyes again. “She’s been reading Shakespeare. Figured I’d give her someone to talk with.”

“ _Jamie—_ ”

“You said she was lonely. She was. Didn’t _mean_ to talk to her that first time.” Jamie frowns. She sighs and glances up. “Thought you’d gotten up and were making hot chocolate. Sounded like a good idea. Knew when she made me tea that it wasn’t you.” She grins. “No one screws up tea like you do.”

Dani gasps. “Are you saying that _thing_ makes better tea than I do?”

“She should give you lessons.” Jamie laughs and rubs the back of her neck again. “Honest, at first I was just trying to see what she was like, you know? Beast lives in your girlfriend, you think she’s going to eat her at some point, maybe if you make friends she puts off the whole eating thing.” She shrugs. “I don’t think she really wants to _eat_ you, Dani. She just seems lonely.”

Dani takes her hand out of Jamie’s and crosses her arms. “You sound like you _like_ her.”

Jamie’s eyes widen, and she looks away. “Like her as much as I like any posh Brit who’s obsessed with plays I can’t follow.” She shakes her head again and turns back to Jamie. “I know you like him, but I said it before and I’ll say it again, his plays put me off. Seriously. He’s a bloody hazard.”

“So you _don’t_ like her.”

Jamie sighs. “I like _you_ , Dani. I’m putting effort into _you_. _You’re_ worth it.” She leans forward to brush their noses together, and Dani doesn’t move. “You don’t have anything to worry about.”

“I’ve got _a lot_ to worry about, actually,” Dani says. “There’s a creature in me who may or may not be waiting to eat me, and my girlfriend thinks I should go make friends with it.”

Jamie nods. “Best thing you can do with a beast is try to tame it, if it lets you. Seems to me that this beast wants to let itself be tamed.” Then she grins. “Best thing about a tamed beast is that it attacks everyone else but you. Might be a good guard dog.”

Dani laughs, but as she does, there is a sharp, sudden pang in the back of her neck. She winces. “I don’t think it _likes_ that analogy.” She reaches back and presses her cold fingers at the spot, but the pain is gone almost as quickly as it was there. She sighs. “ _If you insist_ ,” she says, finally, “I will _try_ to speak with it.” She meets Jamie’s eyes. “No guarantee it’ll go well, though, and if it tries to hurt me—”

“I’ll find a way to get in there and kill her myself.” Jamie presses a quick kiss to Dani’s lips. As she does, there is a sharp knocking on the front door. She sighs. “You’d think the _Closed_ sign would tell ‘em to buzz off, wouldn’t you?” She shakes her head. “Best be getting back to work, if you’re okay.”

Dani shrugs. “I’m okay if _we’re_ okay.”

Jamie looks at her and hesitates. “Are we okay, Poppins?”

“Yeah.” Dani nods once, letting out a deep breath and smiling. “I think we are.”

* * *

Dani spends the rest of the day at the flower shop with Jamie. The conversation doesn’t come up again; it doesn’t need to, and she doesn’t want it. It still feels a little bit like it’s looming over her head – things with Jamie are better, but she’s agreed to try and talk to the creature, and she still really doesn’t want to do it. She’s still afraid. And spending time here means she can put it off even longer.

But the work day comes to a close, and Jamie suggests she go back to the house early – she still has a few things to do around the shop, nothing that Dani can help with, but that might take a little longer. She doesn’t want Dani to be bored.

Dani sees this for what it is. Jamie knows she can’t get bored watching her work, but it’s a subtle nod to their conversation, to Dani’s agreement to try and speak with the creature. This is a perfect opening, if she’s willing to take it. She doesn’t want it to look as though she is backing out on that, so she heads back to the house. Still, she doesn’t plan on necessarily talking with the creature _today_. It all seems a little too soon. She wants more time to think it over.

When she gets back to their house, Dani makes herself a cup of hot chocolate (not tea) and curls up on her corner of the sofa. She’ll move her pillow back to the bedroom later, and for now, the blankets help keep her warm. She pulls them up around her, takes her book from the side table, and opens it to the spot marked by her receipt paper.

And then stops.

_Okay, Jamie. This is a bit too much._

Dani thinks that, but she knows Jamie’s handwriting as well as she knows her own, and this? This isn’t it. In fact, as much as Dani wants to say that she’s never seen this writing before, she can’t say that, although she can’t place exactly where she’s seen it before. One of the Shakespearean plays, perhaps, in some of the writing on the side. She feels like wherever she’s seen it, the writing is much smaller, much tighter than it is on this page. Maybe it’s not the same at all. Maybe she’s just trying to convince herself it is.

Sometimes, it feels a bit like she’s trying too hard to lie to herself and convince herself of something other than what she knows. Dani thinks it’s a self-preservation tactic. Knowing too much might make her more afraid. She might be strong – she might be brave – but that doesn’t mean she can’t still be afraid.

Dani rubs her thumb along the piece of paper and presses her lips together as she reads it. Once. Twice. Three times.

Fine. _Fine._ If she just _must_.

Dani takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and finds herself in the middle of path through the jungle. She walks along it, wary of being watched by anything around her, and shivers as she does. There is no _sound_ here. Jungles should be full of wind ruffling through branches, the flittering of butterfly wings that can change the world, chirps from one insect to the other, the croaking of frogs, the slithering of snakes – _something_. But there is nothing, and in the lack of it, she thinks that perhaps the creature has destroyed every animal that must have been living here with its bare hands, just the same way as it almost killed her. She turns around as though to return and comes face to face with a large moat, a bigger wall, and a wrought iron gate with a rusted lock holding it all together.

The creature has been busy.

Dani swallows once. She doesn’t like this. She wants to go back. But if she heads back now, just at the beginning, then she knows she won’t do this again. She’ll be too afraid. It will be harder, and it is already hard enough. So she continues down the path, further into the jungle, and as she does, the jungle slowly fades away around her. She finds the path to be lined with fruit trees – apples, plums, and a couple that appear to hold oranges, although there are significantly less of these. She picks one of the green-skinned apples from a tree and holds it in her hand, staring at it. Something tells her she shouldn’t eat it. Truth be told, she’s quite a bit afraid to do so. But she _did_ pick it, and Jamie would be disappointed with her if she wastes it.

It isn’t real. None of this is real. Jamie wouldn’t be disappointed with her for discarding a _fake apple_.

And yet, Dani keeps the apple with her as she continues down the path. It gives her something to hold onto, something to toss between her hands the way Jamie might, something to focus on that isn’t whatever waits at the end of the path.

Eventually, the trees fade away, too, and the path becomes a hallway. There isn’t any real abrupt change; it all fades in on itself until she is no longer on the tree-lined path but instead in the hallway. Dani turns to look behind her, and all she can see is that hallway, stretched on as though it will never end, even though she knows that, eventually, it _does_ and it _will_ , fading back into the tree-lined path and again into the jungle the same way that it has the opposite. Still, she can’t help but feel _horribly_ afraid that by walking down this path, by walking down this hallway, she is walking herself into a trap of some sort.

If it is a trap, Dani blames herself. She knew better than to give the creature _either_ a face _or_ a story, and she knew better than to listen to those who told her to do so. Well. She is here, and she is trying, if only because she didn’t like lying to Jamie, if only because Jamie believes that the creature is only human and not life-threatening at all.

And there is the note.

Eventually, the hallway stops, and Dani finds herself outside of a door. She knows this door. She has stood outside of it before. She knows, if she tries the knob, that she will find it locked. In fact, part of her is absolutely certain that she has been in the room on the other side of this door, too, has been locked inside the little cell with the dark windowpanes on one side, the vanity on the other, and the chest inlaid in the wall across from the large, four-poster bed, that there are bookshelves lining most of what was once empty space.

But this time, she is on this side. This time, she wears her own clothes and not the nightgown that belongs solely, wholly to the creature who she suspects lives here.

That doesn’t make her feel any better.

Dani presses her lips together, grips the apple firmly in one hand, and lifts her other hand to knock.

But a hand on her shoulder stops her.

“I was wondering,” a voice says, soft and feminine and halting and raspy as though it has not been used in quite some time, “when you would visit.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, I want to apologize for the long wait on this chapter. I've had it roughed out for a while and could have posted it earlier, but I thought it was a lot rougher than it was and wanted to go back through and reread the fic up to this point to make sure that the points that are brought up are right. There's a little bit in here that I thought might be worth holding off until later BUT I think it's...not a one-off. Maybe. We'll see.
> 
> Second, I have the next...three? chapters? roughed out? or something like that? So might wait a little bit before posting the next one, BUT. Still making progress. Still continuing forward movement. Last week was ROUGH, obviously, and I really wanted to post a chapter to help with that but I didn't want to post something subpar just to post it.
> 
> Third, I post status updates on my tumblr account - aparticularbandit.tumblr.com - so, like, with long waits like this one, I usually give an update on why it's taking so long there. If you have questions or etc. when it's been a while, feel free to contact me there!
> 
> ANYWAY that's a long enough note and I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations for it. ^^;;

They do not go into the locked room, just the same as they do not go past the locked gate.

Your door could open for her easily enough, given that you have not implemented rust or barriers or anything of the sort, only the simple lock, but if she has not chosen to allow you free passage, then perhaps it is not in your best interests to allow it to her either. You do not know how much she remembers from the room when she wakes, but it seems to be far less than you remember when you return, if there is anything she remembers at all.

Instead, you stay just outside the locked door.

Your host stares at you, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, one of them gripping tight onto an apple that you are certain she has picked from your side of the gate. She seems…upset – that catchall word that means far too many things to accurately convey much of any of them. You press your lips together. “I sincerely hope you’re not intending to throw that at me,” you say, nodding at the apple.

“Why not?” she asks, eyes narrowing. “Are you going to fight me if I do?”

Your gaze returns to her face, and you meet her eyes. You are taller than she is. You hadn’t realized you would be _taller_ than she is. “Wouldn’t you want to fight someone who threw an apple at you?”

Your host’s eyes narrow further until her gaze can only be called a glare. “Jamie will be very upset with you if you eat me. You should know that.”

If this wasn’t so serious, you think you would laugh, and as it is, a stumbling rolling rock of a sound breaks through your lips anyway. It makes your host step back in what you would guess is fear, and then she steps forward again, clenching her hands so tight that her knuckles begin to turn a bright white. “I’m not a cannibal,” you say, unable to keep the wry grin from one corner of your lips. “I don’t _eat_ people.”

“You said you were _feasting_ on me.”

“It’s a metaphor.” You reach for her hand, and she steps back, away from you. But still, you move closer until she runs her back up against the locked door. You take the apple from her hand and hold it in front of her. “ _This_ is what I eat,” you say, turning it in front of her. “Not people.” You sigh and step away from her, shaking your head once. “People have far too much fat content. You don’t taste very good.”

She continues to glare at you. “So you _do_ eat people.”

“No,” you say with another shake of your head. “I was jesting.” You press your lips together. “But it seems to me that you will not listen to a good jest. You are just like your Jamie was when we first began speaking. You take everything so seriously.”

Your host continues to glare at you. “You know, it’s hard not to take things seriously when you talk with someone who tried to kill you.”

“I don’t remember doing that.”

“Well, _you did_.” Your host doesn’t stop glaring. It as though this is the only thing she can do – glare and clench her fists and be upset with you for something you do not remember (or even for something you do). “ _I_ can’t forget it. You tried to kill me, and you tried to kill Flora, and you’ve killed probably hundreds of people, and you kept them all _stuck_ there on Bly, and—” She swallows once and shakes her head. “How do you just _forget_ that?”

Your head tilts to one side as you consider. “I forget it the same way that you do,” you say, pressing your lips together. _Hm._ “I would sleep for a very long time, and while I was asleep, I would forget. When I woke up, nothing that happened before felt quite real. I _wanted_ something. I expected it. I can’t even remember what it was that I wanted – my daughter, maybe.” You say this without the slightest hint of pause. You’d mentioned your daughter to Jamie, and you expected her to have mentioned it to your host. But you can tell from her little flinch of a reaction that she hadn’t heard of that at all. You continue anyway. “And every time I would walk, I would _hope_ for that, without even knowing what it was. There may have been other people there, but I didn’t see them. If you were there, if I hurt you, it was not intentional, I assure you. I didn’t even _see_ you. I only wanted. And Flora….” You press your lips together. “Flora _is_ the young girl, isn’t she? The one who spoke of me as though she knew I existed, the one who gave you Shakespeare, along with the young boy?”

Your host nods once, abruptly. “Yes. Yes, that’s her.”

“I do not think I truly saw _her_ either.” Your eyes narrow as you continue to think. “I only saw my daughter.”

“So you wanted to kill your daughter?” your host interrupts, her voice tight. “That’s _worse_. Don’t you see how that’s worse?”

You shake your head. “I only wanted to take my daughter back to bed with me so that we could spend time together.” You look past her and nod to the room. “I believed that I was taking her to be with me there. That is what I saw, and nothing else. That, and the path, and my daughter, when she was there. Nothing else.” Your eyes narrow in further thought. You can almost remember – _almost_ – dragging people with you, people who tried to get in your way. But it is _fuzzy_ at best, like static on their television. You can’t make out a clear picture. “I don’t even remember her name.”

You press your lips together, lick your lower lip, and then try to smile. “Come,” you say, gesturing with your free hand. “Walk with me. Let me show you around. It is not quite as terrifying as it is made out to be. I think you will enjoy it, if you would—”

“I don’t _want_ to enjoy it,” your host interrupts, hands still clenched tight. “I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be stuck here when you decide that you are tired of living here, when you decide that you want to take me over.” She glares at you again. “Just because _you_ like it here doesn’t mean—”

“I am not a beast,” you interrupt, staring at her, voice firm. “I know that you can see me, and I know that you can see that I am not a creature filled with base instincts following them in a rigid, unbreakable pattern without a second thought any longer. I know that you can see that.” You stare at her and look her over. “You asked me to be here,” you say, voice softening. “ _You asked._ Do not act now as though you are innocent of everything.” You take a deep breath, stilling yourself, and then nod once. “Hate me all you want, but do not forget that _you_ are the one who allowed me to be here. I did not ask. I did not suggest. _You_ called me, and I was so tired of being alone. I thought—”

You shake your head. “Never mind what I thought.” It is that stubborn hope again, beating its wings in your chest, dropping feathers as it does so. It never beats too hard. Sometimes, it even sings, chirps a little melody that you think is meant to make you feel cheerier. And yet. “Come with me or not at your leisure. I’m already tired of defending myself to you.”

* * *

Dani watches as the lady turns and walks away from her, back down the hallway where it will fade into the tree-lined path, where it will fade again, eventually, into that jungle with no sound. Her hands ache from clenching. She feels as though she has received a slap to the face, even though the other woman hasn’t touched her at all, other than taking the apple from her, one which the creature still holds in a loose grip.

She looks almost exactly as Dani imagined her. Not the faceless being that she remembers from that time at Bly, not the melted wax creature with seaweed thin dripping wet hair and a soaking white nightgown that is somehow (thankfully) _not_ transparent, but real flesh and blood. _Dead_ flesh and blood, so likely _not_ real, but Dani could be convinced that it is. The woman’s hand on hers had certainly _felt_ real. As real as anything else in this mindscape could be said to be.

Dani shakes herself once. _Wake up._

It takes far too long. She isn’t trying to come back to the land of the living, isn’t trying to make herself leave her mindscape. Not yet. What she wants is whatever part of her still thinks of the being as a creature to make up its mind. She holds tight to that thought because it is easier – she knows that is why she holds onto it, because it is how she has thought for so long. And even still, it is hard to think of someone who occasionally takes over her body against her will as anything other than a faceless beast.

But it is hard to maintain that illusion in light of the very real woman who has been standing in front of her, who has been speaking to her.

Could she believe that all of this is a creation of the creature living in the back of her mind? Yes. But does she really believe that malevolent faceless devourer would create a world quite like this?

The answer, surprisingly, is _No._

A part of her is still surprised that there is anything so well-formed as the path lined with trees, this hallway that could very well have been in Bly, and the room beyond that is still locked. The creature she has been imagining would only have lurked beneath a lake in the back of her pond, and its wanderings would be the same as they always have been – just that ceaseless waking, walking through her mind, and then returning beneath its lake.

She hesitates a moment too long. The creature – _the woman_ – reaches the part of the hallway that fades into the path, and she seems to move out of Dani’s view. Still wary, and still afraid, Dani chases after her, hands still clinched at her sides.

* * *

You are surprised when you hear your host running after you, and you stop, turning back to her. She still has her hands clenched at her sides. You think, when dealing with you, that might never change, that she will always be prepared to fight with you, no matter if you want to fight with her or not.

Still – she came after you. That should count for something.

“Wait,” she says, taking a deep breath and stopping just in front of you. “ _Wait._ ”

You do. She did not have to ask, but it pleases you that she does. Even if, technically speaking, it is more of a request than a question. “You have decided to come along with me?”

Your host takes a deep breath, stopping just in front of you. “I’d rather not, but you’re not really giving me much of an option.”

“I gave you the option to come or not.” You run your thumb along the flesh of your green apple – the one _she_ picked and brought with her. “Would you prefer to have this back? You _can_ , provided you don’t throw it at me.”

She narrows her eyes. “Why are you so concerned with having apples thrown at you? Has anyone thrown one at you before?”

“I don’t remember.” The answer is easy enough, as much as you don’t like it. You look away and gesture past you, to the path lined with trees, and then before you, to the hallway that leads back to your room. “I don’t remember much outside of this space, unfortunately. It is one of my deepest regrets.”

“More than killing people.”

You sigh. “Again, I don’t remember doing that.” You start on your way again, and the hallway beneath your bare feet shifts to the path you have come to know well. You don’t love it or hate it or have any particularly strong emotional feeling towards it. The path is simply _there_ to be walked on. “Perhaps it would be best if we did not discuss that. Your accusations may have their roots in fact, but that means little to me if I cannot remember it. There is nothing more I can say in my defense and no explanation I can give. I have no intention of admitting to something I cannot remember. That seems a very good way of getting myself into trouble.”

When your host doesn’t take the apple back, you place it beneath one of the trees. You cannot tell which of them she stole it from and so cannot know to which you should return it. Wherever it is, there it is.

And so, you walk, and your host follows.

* * *

Dani follows the woman with her hands still clenched at her sides, ready and wary – just in case – even though, as they walk, there seems to be less and less of a reason for her to do so. The woman doesn’t seem to have anything specific in mind. She simply wanders here and there – follows the path for a very long time and then seems to step off of it.

“Where are you taking me?” Dani asks, finally, looking around. The fruit trees fade into the jungle, and she feels even more uncomfortable here than anywhere else. The silence in the hallway and on the path is one thing, but the silence here is so loud simply because it should not be.

“Around,” the woman says, as though that is supposed to be an answer.

Dani’s arms wrap around herself as they continue to walk deeper into the jungle. It’s the silence that gets to her even more than the creature does. There should…there should be _something_ here, something other than just _them_ , but there’s _nothing_. Nothing at all.

It’s unsettling.

“Where are the birds?” she asks finally, looking around and seeing nothing. “And the other animals? Are they all scared of you, or did you kill all of them, too?” She presses her lips together. “I take it you don’t remember it if you did.”

“There have never been any other creatures.” The woman continues moving forward, pushing through the jungle. “I am here alone with my fruit trees. There used to be a stream, but you dried it up.”

Dani blinks. “I did _what_ now?”

“You dried up my stream,” the woman says without a hint of bitterness to her tone, even though Dani imagines that there is one there nevertheless. “You redirected it to make that great moat of yours just before the gate.”

“I don’t remember doing any of that.”

“And I do not remember killing anyone, and yet you _insist_ that I’ve done it.” A corner of the woman’s lips curves upward in the barest hint of a smile. “Perhaps you and I have the same problem.”

Dani shakes her head. “There is a difference between _killing people_ and _creating a moat_.”

“Of course, there is. I did not mean to suggest that those were the same. Only that you and I seem to have trouble remembering things we have done. Subconscious things. Ones that we likely didn’t even realize we were doing when we did them.” The woman pauses. “Have you seen the moat? And the wall?”

Dani nods. “They were just behind me when I entered. I figured you made them.”

“No,” the woman says with a little laugh. “There once was only a white picket fence with a rusted lock holding it closed. But every time you found something new about me to frustrate you, the barrier grew. Barbed wire, at first. Then the wall. Then pikes and a thicker gate. Now there is a moat.” She gives Dani a pitying look. “It doesn’t do you much good. I can still climb over it whenever I so desire. But it’s nice that you try.”

Dani’s eyes narrow. “Are you mocking me?”

“No. Only jesting.”

“That’s the same thing.” Dani feels very strongly that she does not like this woman. She doesn’t know if that’s carryover from not liking the creature that this woman once was – that a part of her still suspects she is – or if that’s just from their current conversation, from feeling as if the woman is constantly poking fun at her and trying to worm her way around whatever Dani is saying. Regardless, the woman makes her feel uncomfortable.

Out of her league, almost.

So, without thinking about it, and not to try and throw the woman off but to somehow quell the uncomfortable feeling she is still getting, Dani asks, “If you don’t mind me asking, what _do_ you remember? You’ve mentioned some things.” She stops and crosses her arms. “What else is there?”

The woman stops abruptly and turns back to face Dani. “I do not think you have earned the right to ask after my memories,” she says in as firm a manner as she can. “I doubt that you would be vulnerable with someone who hates you so completely as you hate me, so please, do not ask that of me either.”

“You mentioned a daughter?” Dani asks as the woman starts forward again, and the words make the woman pause. “You had a daughter?”

This time, the woman does not turn back. “Yes,” she says, finally. “Yes, I did.”

Dani takes a deep breath. “What happened to her?”

The woman continues to pause. She looks up at the darkening sky and lets out a sigh. “I don’t remember,” she says finally, and she turns back to Dani, pressing her lips together in a thin line. “I think that’s quite enough for now. Time for you to go back.”

“Go back?” Dani asks, brows furrowing. “What do you mean go—?”

Then – it’s the same feeling, that same _thrust_ that Dani feels when she is pushed out of the room, the same tightening on her wrist when she had been thrown from the room so long ago, although there is nothing touching her now, and all of a sudden, she is back, on the sofa, away from wherever it was she had been.

Dani blinks, staring out on the world that is the real world, and she takes a deep breath. How long has she been gone? How long had that taken? And, more importantly, how had the woman thrown her out so suddenly and abruptly? She closes her eyes again and tries to send herself back, but when she does, she finds herself on the other side of the locked gate, surrounded by other fruit trees – not apples, not plums, not oranges – but olives, coconuts, a really odd assortment of food that she isn’t sure she even likes in the first place and so is confused as to why they are growing here. She walks toward the wrought iron gate, grabs the trunk of one of the decorative apple trees, and stares through to the other side, where there is little space to stand before hitting the moat. If she really _had_ constructed this, it should have had a drawbridge. Or perhaps whatever part of her subconscious had constructed it hadn’t considered that someone from this side would want to ever cross to the other, was only focused on making sure whatever existed across the moat was forced to stay there.

She closes her eyes and sighs.

Something lands on her shoulder, and Dani opens her eyes to a bluebird, tweeting a little tune at her before spreading its wings and flying off again deeper into the jungle on this side of the wall. Dani stares after it. She starts to follow it, but as soon as she steps foot into the jungle, a flock of crows startle, fly around her, and then into the sky, further into the depths of her jungle. She flinches.

_Birds._

Dani bites her lower lip as she watches them fly away. A few feathers float down around her, and she picks one up, staring at it. The wind ruffles its tips as she holds it, pushing her hair into her face. She tucks her hair back and stares around her, watching the leaves rustle in the breeze. If she focuses, she can even hear the bubbling of a stream ahead of her, should she want to investigate.

She doesn’t. She opens her eyes _and she opens her eyes_.

The world is real and true and there. Dani stands and goes to the window, glances down to the sidewalks, to the snow piled up on either side, and sees Jamie just starting to walk up to their front door. She takes a deep breath. Good. _Good._ She isn’t sure she can handle trying to think through any of this right now.


	19. Chapter 19

“So she came to visit you,” Jamie says, warming her hands on her cup of tea. “What was that like?”

It’s not quite midnight, not quite the moment where time passes over from night to the wee hours of the morning, and you haven’t talked about Shakespeare at all, even though you would much rather prefer that. Still, you can understand the other woman’s curiosity. You would be curious about that as well.

Jamie had seemed surprised when you brought up that your host visited. Apparently she hadn’t mentioned it to her. You aren’t sure how to feel about that. _Not good_ , certainly, but perhaps some things are meant to be kept private. Unfortunately for her, your host hadn’t communicated to you to say nothing on the matter, and so, she knows.

You hadn’t meant to start a conversation about it, though. You had only meant to comment on it in passing.

“Different,” you say, finally, settling on a word that said enough without saying anything. You tap your fingers against your teacup and then push one hand through your host’s blonde hair, leaning back against the arm of the couch. “It felt different.”

“That doesn’t mean anything to me, ghostie.” Jamie’s eyes narrow. “I don’t know what it’s like in there normally; how am I supposed to know what _different_ feels like?”

You shrug. “You didn’t ask what it felt like normally, only what it was like when she came to visit. My apologies for not being able to read your mind.” You look up through your lashes, smug smile creeping to one corner of your lips.

“ _You knew what I meant._ ” Jamie groans and leans back. “Blimey, you’re infuriating.”

“I am _quite_ certain that you are not the only one who has thought just that in the time they have known me.” You prop your elbow on the arm of the sofa and then rest your chin in your hand, watching her with that quiet little smile. “Infuriating seems to be my specialty.”

Jamie rolls her eyes. “Don’t look at me like that, ghostie.”

You raise one brow. “What’s wrong with it? Am I doing something wrong?”

“No.” Jamie looks away and sighs. It’s another minute before she gathers herself to speak again. “Tell me about the visit. Quid pro quo – I told you about my fight with Dani, you tell me about your fight with her.”

You blink. “You aren’t Friar Lawrence in this equation. I am not in love with my host, and she certainly is not in love with me.” Your smug grin fades into an even softer smile. “And I doubt that you would appreciate either of us dying for the other.” Your head tilts. “Perhaps you would accept it if _I_ died, excepting that I’m—”

“—already dead,” Jamie says at the same exact moment you say it. She gives you a blank stare. “You need a new joke.”

“Why should I get a new one when this works just as well?” Your smile fades as you glance down into your teacup. As much as you might acknowledge your own death, you don’t like to dwell on it. You can’t even remember how you died in the first place, although you expect it must have been something horrifying or gruesome. How else would you have ended up lingering here afterwards, if not out of the feeling that something was ill done? You glance up again. “Would you truly try to give me advice on how to make peace with my host?”

Jamie shrugs. “Poppins’ll feel better if she’s not fighting with anyone. She’ll feel better if she quits acting like you’re some beastie out to get her”

“That might be a bit too much to hope for,” you murmur. You glance outside. A streetlamp lights the sidewalk just outside of their house, and where it hits, the street seems to glimmer with the damp of melted snow. Perhaps it is ice and not snow. From your perch, you cannot tell. “I take it Valentine’s Day ended with your fight.”

“It went well before that.” Jamie grins. “I know how to treat my girl right.” She winks at you.

You feel as though you should blush, as though your cheeks should grow red and hot from the attention, and yet neither of these things happen. Instead, you merely smile. “I suppose that any girl would be lucky to have you. Other than the whole _talking with the ghost_ aspect.” It’s easy to switch the subject, to focus on Jamie instead of focusing on yourself. “I take it that the two of you are much more agreeable now?”

Jamie nods, interlacing her fingers around her cup. “Yeah. Dani’s not very good at fighting. Not for long.” She gives you a look. “If she came around for me, she’ll come around for you, too. Might take a spot longer than you want.”

“It’s different with you.” You continue to look outside. With your newly sharper eyesight, you can almost see weeds growing between the cracks in the sidewalk, even now, in the dead of winter. They look a bright green, as though for them it is spring. “She likes you.” You sigh and look back. “I don’t think it much matters whether or not she likes me. I will survive either way. Some people simply do not get along, and while in this case it is _upsetting_ , I cannot make her like me.” You glance back to your companion. “I cannot make _you_ like me either.”

“Never said I did.”

“I know.” You laugh to yourself. “But at least you will speak with me. That is enough.”

“Doesn’t quite seem like enough,” Jamie says, and her words touch a raw ache within you, one you cannot quite deny.

Still, there is nothing else you can do. “She asked me what I remembered,” you say, finally, musing on it. “I thought it would not be wise to share that with someone who so absolutely loathes the very sight of me, and when I refused to answer, she asked about my daughter.” You sigh. “I answered, in small part, and then I forced her out.”

Jamie’s eyes narrow. “Forced her out? What does that mean?”

You press your lips together. “When I’m not here, I’m in what appears to be a whole other world. I start in my room, and I travel from there down a hallway to the outside. There is a path that leads through the jungle and reaches a moat in front of a thick wall with an iron gate and lock that is rusted shut with its key still inside.” It is simple to explain, even though you know that the very idea of such a place must not make sense to your companion. “I live on one side of the gate, and my host maintains the other side, although she appears not to be much aware of it. When I want to make my presence known, as I do now, I climb over the wall and continue to travel along the path until I can see though her eyes.” You press your fingers to the bridge of your nose. “It is more complicated than that, but not in a way I can truly describe.”

Jamie nods slowly. “And when you forced her out—”

“I pushed her from my side of the gate onto her own side.”

“You slammed the door in her face.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” You run your fingers in circles along the threads that make up their couch, searching for a pattern that isn’t there to begin with. “I made it well known that I did not like the threads of conversation she was pursuing, and when she refused to allow for another topic, I stopped maintaining the conversation.” You shrug in the same manner that Jamie often does. “It is simple enough.”

Jamie groans and kneads her forehead with one hand. “After all the fucking work it took to get Dani to meet with you in the first place, and you slammed the door in her face.”

“What would you have had me do?” you ask, staring at her. “Roll over and show my belly to someone who would rather rip my intestines out and leave me to bleed? I don’t think that is the greatest idea.”

“You know she feels the same way about you.”

You cross your arms, eyes narrowing. “I think I have quite proven that I have no desire to harm her in such a manner. If I wanted to do so, I could have done it by now – quite easily enough, too. _She_ , on the other hand, has had no opportunity and no such weapons to throw against me, which I’m sure she willingly would if she had them.”

Jamie lets out another groan. “Why do I feel like I’m having the same conversation with two different people?” She throws her hands out. “Might as well be the same person, since you’re wearing her body!”

“I would wear my own if I had it.”

“If you _did_ have it, we wouldn’t be having this problem, would we?” Jamie shakes her head. “I think I’ve had quite enough of this for now, ghostie. The two of you are talking yourselves in circles, and until you come to the realization that neither of you is going to kill each other, I think you’re very much stuck.”

You press your lips together in a thin little line. “You would have killed me, too, Jamie, if you had the opportunity to do so. Don’t try to lie to me and tell me that isn’t so.”

“I’ve learned better,” she says, glaring at you, “because I took the time to learn better and you didn’t bite my head off for trying. Maybe extend the same courtesy to the woman whose body you’re living in.” She stands and claps her hands together. “And that’s the last I have to say about that.”

“I didn’t _bite her head off_ ,” you answer. “I think your love very clearly still has her—”

But Jamie is gone. Jamie is walking away, Jamie is leaving, Jamie is down the hall and ignoring whatever you have to say. Jamie is slamming the door behind her with a far too loud groan of exasperation, which you think is entirely unfair given that you aren’t allowed to unhinge your host’s jaw in your own guttural growl of a yell. It crosses your mind that this isn’t exactly the same thing, but the reaction would still feel the same. Exasperation. Frustration. Whatever the word for all of this is.

You sigh and push your hand through your host’s blonde hair. It’s bigger than yours, and whatever makes it that big makes it feel at turns hard or crispy crinkly, like tree bark after it has been thrown in a fire for too long but just before it turns into ash – when it still crackles and pops. For all Jamie says you should teach her how to make proper tea, you feel as though you should teach her how to take better care of her hair – how to get the volume she so desperately wants without having all of this _junk_ in it.

It still seems to you as though you have done nothing wrong. You spoke with your host when she came to visit, and for the most part, you did your best to be nothing but cordial to her. You only sent her away when she continued to pursue a line of questioning you did not want to answer. In fact, you _did_ answer her question; you simply sent her away before she could ask even more on that subject.

Your daughter is a sensitive subject. You are aware of this, more so when you spend time thinking on it. Something in you aches to remember her – what she looked like, what she acted like, how old she was. Deep in your heart, you know that it is likely that she is already dead. You died a long time ago, and while you are not sure how long it has been since then, you are certain that it is long enough that anyone you may have known at that time is now dead.

The thought sends your insides churning. You hate thinking about your daughter, dead. Worse, you hate that you didn’t get to see her one last time before—

You shiver once and force yourself to stop thinking about it. Even if your daughter might be dead, her descendants likely are not. If you could remember her, perhaps you could find them. It is an interesting thought, but not one you want to put much weight on. Your host would likely never accept a trip to go find your lost family. You are not sure _you_ want to go on such a trip.

(Something in you _aches_ for it, _yells_ for it, so loud that you feel as though…as though….)

You take a deep breath and let it out. It is not the time to think about all of this. Perhaps tomorrow…perhaps you will try to get in contact with your host again – in a way that she will hopefully appreciate more than what you have been trying. You still do not know if she received the note you left her. She hadn’t mentioned it. She had mentioned _many other things_ , but she hadn’t mentioned your note.

Perhaps—

You smile softly. Despite everything, you think the idea you just had is a good one. You will just have to wait and see.


	20. Chapter 20

Dani doesn’t try to speak with the ghost in the back of her mind again. She doesn’t feel the need to do so. Their last conversation had been so abrupt and so uncomfortable and so horrible and so unsettling that she doesn’t want to go back. Whatever it is that makes things so dead silent on the ghost’s side of the wall is enough to make her stay far away. She doesn’t want to deal with that _silence_ again. She doesn’t like it. And she’s certainly not going to invite the ghost to her side.

It doesn’t even cross her mind that she has started referring to her as a _ghost_ instead of a _creature_. If it did, she would likely flinch. Whatever the case, the visit did exactly what Jamie and Viola hoped it would – it made Viola more human to her host, even if Dani refuses to think about it.

Outside, the snow is beginning to melt. There are still great clumps of it on the sides of the roads where the plows have pushed it, and while what little snow is left in their yard is still a bright, bright white, those big melting mounds are grey and black and just look more like ash left behind in a fireplace than they do like actual snow. The worst is walking down the sidewalk on the way to the flower shop and having a car _zoom_ by through the puddles left by the melting snow and splattering the greasy gunk all over her. It hasn’t happened too often, but it has happened often enough that she prefers to wait until there are less cars around to walk to the shop.

Today, Dani waits a little longer than normal, debating whether she should even go at all. There hasn’t been much for her to do around the shop; with Valentine’s over, the most they’ve had is people starting to prepare for May weddings or a few people looking into what they might want to do for prom. Most boys don’t start getting prepared for prom that early (Dani is certain that Eddie never did, but she doesn’t like to think about that), and most of what they’ve seen are a few girls who talk to them in soft, uncertain tones, as though wary of being found out or overheard. Dani is certain the girls have come to them because what they are is apparent to those who pay attention without being blatant, which lets them know that they can come talk with them without fear of judgment. She understands. She felt the same way, growing up, and sometimes, she still feels the same way now.

But with little to do at the shop, sometime it feels as though she shouldn’t be there at all. Jamie usually wants her around, just to keep each other company, but….

They’re introverts. That’s the word for it. And together, it’s nice because they can sit in each other’s company without overwhelming each other, but as much as they love each other, they do occasionally need time apart. It isn’t a bad thing. It is just the way they are.

Today feels, perhaps, like a good day to be apart.

This perhaps seems like the antithesis of everything that has been going on, considering their fight, considering her attempt to speak with the ghost in the back of her mind – but it is all of those things together which make today feel like a good day to stay alone and recharge. Or, at least, as alone as Dani _can_ be, given the situation.

Still, the ghost has never quite intruded on her alone time. Sometimes it has stitched itself beneath her skin to read as she does, but it usually has not tucked her away. Even when it _has_ read with her, it hasn’t been….

It has been a lot of things. It would be wrong to say that Dani enjoyed it or even that she was okay with it. She isn’t. That stretch beneath her skin is uncomfortable, like wearing a shoe that is a size too small rubbing blisters on her heels and pinching her toes as she walked – just _under_ her skin instead of over it. And how does one deal with blisters _under_ the skin?

Not well, is the answer to that. _Not well._

Dani stares at the mugs for a few minutes, debating. _Coffee today_ , she thinks. Hot chocolate is good, but she has had enough of it over the past few months. And tea…. Well, it’s hard to get herself to really want to make a cup of tea when apparently the ghost who sometimes tucks her away makes a better cup than she does. It never tastes bad to her. How could the ghost be—

No. Not thinking about that. Not thinking about the ghost at all. Making herself a cup of coffee and curling up on the couch for some time to herself. That is the plan. No point in making it worse – or more tense – by thinking about the ghost.

And yet there is still that same, small pressure that builds at the back of her skull, just between the muscles holding it to the top of her spine, as Dani leans against the counter and watches the coffee drip into the pot. She presses her cold fingertips to the spot, but the pressure moves as soon as she does, as though trying to avoid her touch. It moves across the top of her head and rests just between her eyes.

Dani resists the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. If the ghost wants to be a pain, then let it be a pain. She isn’t going to talk to it again.

The coffee continues to drip into its pot, and when it is done, Dani pulls the pot away. She looks for sugar and creamer – Jamie likes to use Bailey’s, but Dani doesn’t particularly want any sort of alcohol in her drink this early in the day (it may be five o’clock somewhere, but that somewhere is _not here_ ) – and on finding the gingerbread creamer that is almost empty (she’d been saving the last of it for a special occasion, and after everything, this should count as a special occasion), she prepares to doctor the pot.

**No.**

Dani feels something pull on her skin, and she hesitates. A voice echoes in her mind, but it fades almost as soon as she hears it. She shakes her head and prepares to fix her pot again.

**STOP.**

Her hand freezes in midair. She flinches her fingers. They still work. She’s still here.

But Dani recognizes the voice now. “I _know_ how to make coffee.”

 **For you, maybe** , the ghost murmurs, and Dani can feel the weight of its stare on her. **You forget that not everyone has your particular taste deficiencies.**

“They’re not _deficiencies_. I just happen to like my coffee _sweeter_ than—”

 **Quit trying to mix everything into the pot.** The ghost’s voice is a small, fading thing, like a warm spring breeze just brushing against the tree leaves outside. **You fix what you have in your cup. You do not prepare the entire pot to your taste.**

Dani’s eyes narrow. “I didn’t ask you for advice. I don’t _want_ your advice. Why don’t you go back where you came from, and—”

 **I expect your Jamie would appreciate it if you left some of the coffee for her** , the ghost muses, a whisper inside her mind. **She would appreciate it _more_ if she can prepare her own mug to her taste.**

“Again,” Dani says. “I did not ask for your help. I can make coffee _just fine_ —”

The ghost sighs. **You make coffee as well as you make tea, don’t you?**

Dani grits her teeth together. “ _Enough._ ” She glares up at the ceiling, imagining that she is glaring at the ghost within her, although she doubts it does any good. “Who are you to think you can tell me what to do?”

**Someone who makes a far better cup of tea than you do.**

Dani feels the frustrated growl building in the center of her chest and bubbling through her lips, but by the time any sound comes out, the familiar pressure of the ghost’s existence has vanished. She grits her teeth and stares at the pot of coffee. Her hand still holds the creamer in one hand.

Then she takes a deep breath, pours her mug, and begins to try and doctor it from there.

* * *

When you tuck your host away and take control, you find Jamie sitting propped up against the headboard with a mug of coffee in one hand and a book propped open in the other. She takes a sip of her coffee as you sit up, brushing your host’s hair back out of your face, and gives you a smug little grin. “You might want to put a shirt on, ghostie.”

You glance down and shrug. “You act as though I haven’t seen anything like this before.” Your head tilts ever so slightly to one side, and a smile crosses your lips. “I expect she would not like this much, would she? My being here when she is in this state of undress?”

Jamie glances over to you, one eyebrow cocked. “Don’t think she was thinking about that, really.”

“Mm.” You tuck her hair back behind one ear, cross her ankles ever so slightly, and then watch as you wiggle her toes. It brings a smile to your face. Amusement. You’re _amused_. That’s the word for this feeling. “Do you think she would mind if I bathed? It has been _centuries_ since I took a proper bath, and I would much like to soak with a good book and a cup of tea.”

Jamie continues to look at you. She places her mug of coffee to one side. “Much as I would like to thank you for whatever coffee tips you gave her, I _don’t_ think she’d much like that.” Her lips purse together to one side. “You think she’d tell you different?”

“I have not asked her. I have asked _you_.”

“Mmhm.” Jamie takes a breath and shakes her head once. “Bit like asking Mom if you can do something just ‘cause you know Dad will say no.” She crosses her arms, both eyebrows raised now. “Gonna have to side with Dad on this one. Answer’s still _no_.”

You hear her, but your mind is elsewhere. Your brows furrow as you think – no, not think, something almost like remembering but not quite.

_A woman._

_One who looks almost like you, but softer, smaller._

_Wavy hair like yours, but lighter._

_No sharp cheekbones._

_Eyes the same as yours but darker._

_Pert nose._

_Bright smile._

_Everything about her makes you want to embrace her, and yet_

_the rage at the center of your chest_

_the one that has been muted for so long_

_rears its ugly head at the sight of her._

_Yet you do not move._

_You stand and see events as they unfold before you._

_As much as you can._

_The woman comes to you_

_hands clasped together_

_smile bright._

_“Let’s have a party, you and me.”_

_Her eyes twinkle merrily._

_“C’mon, Viola. Say yes!”_

_You look at her._

_You brush the back of your fingers along her cheek._

_You tuck a curl of her wavy, auburn hair back behind one ear._

_“Did you ask Father?”_

_She stares at you,_

_still bright, still full of life_

_but the eyes darker than yours darken further._

_“I asked you.”_

_You press your lips together._

_“Perdy, you know I can’t say yes if Father hasn’t said so.”_

_“Father is exhausted.”_

_Her voice is soft, barely a murmur._

_“I know he would say yes if you started one._

_He always says yes to you.”_

_“Because I do not push him to hold a party when he is already exhausted.”_

_You sigh, and your gaze moves past the woman,_

_lingers somewhere just beyond._

_You do not know what you are staring at._

_You must have once, whenever this actually happened._

_You do not know now._

_“Perhaps you should wait until tomorrow._

_Ask him then._

_Give him time to recover from—”_

_“He is exhausted more often than he is not._

_You know this.”_

_The young woman’s hands clench tight._

_She pouts._

_You feel as though she hates you._

_You feel as though she loves you._

_You feel as though both are true,_

_not just in this instance_

_but in all of them._

_“Wait,”_

_you say._

_You flinch._

_You imagine the man lying on a bed._

_You cannot make out his features._

_He seems—_

_“—exhausted,”_

_the woman says,_

_and she looks at you with clear frustration._

_“You said he was—”_

No _,_

_you do not say._

No, I said nothing of the sort.

 _You_ said he was exhausted.

I told you to—

“Ghostie?”

Jamie’s voice calls you back from the edge of wherever you were, and you feel her hand on the bare skin of your back, just along the ridge of your shoulder blade. “You feeling alright?”

She sounds concerned. This surprises you. It is _odd_ , somehow, that your host’s lover should be concerned with what happens to _you_.

You press your lips together and glance over your shoulder just so you can see her. You reach out and touch her face very gently, but as you do, she flinches away. Of course, she does. You are not hurt by this. It is only right, after all. Still, your brows furrow, and your gaze shifts. “I was remembering,” you say, voice soft. “I didn’t know I could do that. I have _tried_ to do that. Unsuccessfully at best.” You take a deep breath and look back up, meeting her eyes. “I _remembered_ something.”

“Right, then,” Jamie says, staring at you. “What did you remember?”

You press your lips together, going over the memories, and you like your lips once. “I think….” You hesitate, trying to make sure that you have considered every angle, but then you say it anyway, head tilting ever so slightly to one side. “I think I had a sister.” Your brows furrow. “I think I had a sister, and I think she wanted me dead.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies ahead of time for the shorter chapter - I'm still ahead, but chapter lengths are...not exactly the most consistent things.
> 
> The next chapter is...fairly long in terms of chapters for this fic, so hopefully that makes up for it? (One of the upcoming chapters is fairly short, too.)
> 
> But - given the length of the next part, I don't want to attach that to this, and I don't want to add on to the beginning of this. So! Sorry. ><;;;;;;

“I think you—”

“Jamie, _please_.” Dani turns to her with brows furrowed, lips pressed together in a thin little line. “Don’t bring up the ghost again. I don’t want to talk to her. I don’t _like_ her. She’s demanding and infuriating and—”

“—should _calm down_.” A thin smile lifts the corner of Jamie’s lips, and she leans just close enough to press a kiss to Dani’s cheek. “ _I_ think we’ve been working and toiling away for months, and you’ve been getting stressed, and I’ve been at the shop, and _I think_ it would be nice to take a little vacation.” She lifts an eyebrow. “We spent all that time wandering about, and now we’ve found ourselves a nice place to settle, but that doesn’t mean we can’t up and wander every now and again.”

Dani meets Jamie’s eyes and bites her lower lip. “But what about the shop?” she asks. “You can’t just leave the shop. Not in the middle of spring. That’s when people _need_ to get flowers. More importantly, that’s when they need someone who knows what they’re doing to get their flowers to _grow_.”

“In the summer,” Jamie says, brushing one fingertip along Dani’s skin. “I’ll make sure to set up a sprinkler to keep our apple tree watered. And you and I can just—” She flicks her fingers in midair. “ _Go._ ” She grins, but it seems _jilted_ somehow. “We should probably only be gone a week or two, though. The plants will take care of themselves, _but_ I should get back and—”

Before she can finish what she is saying, Dani wraps her arms around Jamie’s neck and kisses her properly. “ _Yes_ ,” she says, and it’s a little more breathless than she thought it would be, but she feels breathless saying it all the same, so that’s about right. “Let’s go. Where do you want to go?”

Jamie rubs the back of her neck. “I hadn’t thought that far. Thought it would be better to _ask_ before we just up and went somewhere.”

Dani knows better than to believe that. Jamie had been the one who planned out their traveling up until this point, and it was Jamie who figured Vermont was the best place for them – not just because they _liked_ it, but from a cultural standpoint, too. Dani wouldn’t have been able to guess at the best place in America for them to stay and still be okay, but her girlfriend must have been taking notes as they traveled, must have been paying attention to how people paid attention to them, because she had known that _here_ was the best spot. And it has been.

Ghost notwithstanding.

But she doesn’t push. Wherever Jamie wants to go, she’ll spill eventually. She’ll have a better plan in place – and they’ll probably end up going to more than one place, making multiple stops as they get to their final destination (and making more stops as they return to their little house, as well) – before she brings up the place she has been considering.

Still.

“You thinking of staying in America, or going to another country?” Dani asks, tongue between her teeth. “Do I need to update my passport?”

“Told you, didn’t I?” Jamie gives Dani a gentle, playful push. “I haven’t decided yet!”

“Alright, alright.” Dani sticks her tongue out at her girlfriend, stepping back so that Jamie can’t hit at her with one of her bare hands. “Just _tell me_ before…. Well, you know! It might take a few months, and if you’re planning summer, we might only _have_ a few months, so—”

“Okay, how’s _this?_ ” Jamie starts, giving Dani a little look. “You and me, somewhere here in the summer, but _over Christmas_ , I say we go visit Owen. I think he’s going to want to see family around the holidays, but he came here last year, best we return the favor, ay?”

Dani stares at her, blank-faced, considering. “Has he settled anywhere? Do you think he’ll settle somewhere, in a few months?”

“More than a few months, I’d say,” Jamie says. Then she shrugs. “Even if he hasn’t settled, I think if we can talk to him about it now, if we get in early, then he’ll be able to find a place for us to all go together.”

Dani meets her eyes, and her head tilts to one side. “You’d really let him plan all of that without you?”

“Yeah. He’s got wanderlust, we like wandering, so we can meet up with him wherever he is and do some wandering together.” Jamie shrugs. “Up to him, of course, but if he’s good for it, and you’re good for it—”

“One request,” Dani says, interrupting her. She presses her lips together and takes a deep breath before saying, finally, “I don’t want him trying to talk with the ghost.” Before Jamie can say anything, she continues, “Even if she tucks me away and he happens to be awake when she does, even if you’re still having your book club with her,” and she can’t keep the frustration out of her voice when she says that, “I don’t.” She shakes her head and forces herself to swallow. “I don’t want him getting all friendly with her. I trust you to not….” She doesn’t know how to say it, doesn’t know how to word it. “You won’t want her to stay,” she says, finally, taking a deep breath. “Instead of me, you won’t want her to stay. But Owen—”

“Owen won’t want her to stay either, love.” Jamie comes toward her. “He loves you, too.”

“I’m the reason Hannah’s gone,” Dani says, unable to meet her eyes. “I’m the reason she’s gone, and she was the reason she could stay as long as she could. I think, given the choice, Owen would probably have rather the ghost still be at Bly so that Hannah could still be at Bly so that he could still be with her. But she didn’t stay. She came with me. So now he just has us.” There’s weight to the words, and she’s not sure she entirely believes them herself, but they’re there all the same.

Jamie brushes hair back out of Dani’s eyes and carefully turns her face so that their eyes can meet. “That doesn’t mean he wants her to stay, love. That means he wanted _Hannah_ to stay.” Her lips curve into a gentle smile. “I think, if he’d known about whatever it was you did with your ghost, he’d have taken Hannah with him.”

“It wouldn’t be what he wanted.” Dani looks away, unable to maintain eye contact with her girlfriend. “It _really_ wouldn’t be what he wanted.” She presses her lips together. “And I don’t think she would have accepted it, either.”

“But _your_ ghost _did_.”

It’s a gentle reminder, and one Dani doesn’t want to hear. As far as she is concerned, there were three kinds of ghosts on Bly Manor – those like Peter Quint, waiting to coerce and manipulate those around him into giving him their bodies as his own; those like Hannah Grose (and, to some extent, Rebecca Jessel), who still remembered who they were and maintained the kindnesses towards others that they held during their lifetimes; and those like the ghost still living within her – those faceless beings who had forgotten entirely who and what they were.

Of course, Dani had only met four of the ghosts. Her ghost is the only faceless one she met. But Peter had mentioned _ghosts_ , other faceless creatures, had mentioned _speaking_ with them, which would suggest that not all of them had forgotten that they forgot. But, then, Peter Quint had proven to be nothing other than manipulative; it was likely that he was speaking more in lies and half-truths than anything completely certain.

(But, then, how had he found something so true and certain as to do what she had done with her ghost, to do what _he_ had done with _Miles?_ That didn’t sound like something he could have just _made up_. So maybe there was some truth in what he said. Not much, but a little.)

Dani takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly. “That isn’t a good thing, Jamie. I wish you didn’t make it sound like that was a good thing.”

“All I’m saying is that she could have said _no_ , Poppins.” Jamie brushes a thumb along her cheek. “She could have said _no_ and continued on with Flora just as she was. But she said _yes_. Freed everyone there by doing it.”

“Freed everyone except _me_.” Dani turned to Jamie, meeting her eyes, plaintive. “I know Owen is grateful to her, but I don’t know why you fight so _hard_ for her. You should be fighting for _me_.”

“Maybe it’s the same thing.” Jamie presses her lips together and shakes her head. “Don’t know how I know it. Not sure I do. Just a _feeling_. Kind of like the feeling I get about you.”

Dani smiles, then, and it’s a soft thing. Her head lowers. She’s blushing; she can feel the heat rushing to her cheeks; and when she looks up to meet Jamie’s eyes, she can see that Jamie is grinning wildly at her. “Well, the feeling you get about me is right.”

Jamie’s grin fades, grows more somber. “So maybe this one is, too. That’s all I’m saying, Poppins.”

Dani nods, letting out another deep sigh. “She told me how to make the coffee better for you,” she admits, voice soft. “Means it’s _shit_ for me, but if it’s good for you, then—”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Jamie holds up a hand and steps back. “Your ghost taught you how to make good coffee, but it’s no good for you.”

Dani crowds her lips to one corner, almost a half-frustrated, half-disgusted look. “I got used to creamer and sugar proportions for an entire pot. It’s harder to figure them out for a single cup.” She glances away before she can see Jamie’s expression, but she can still hear her sniggering. “ _Sorry_ , I’m so used to _trying to make good coffee for everyone_ —”

“Even though you know we don’t drink it—”

“Oh, _hush_.” Dani reaches over and swats Jamie’s arm, but Jamie dances just out of reach, still laughing. And Dani can’t help it, Jamie’s laughter brings a smile to her face, too. It’s _calming_. Relaxing. She can’t help but laugh, too.

And somehow, that’s it. That’s enough. Whatever disagreement they are having isn’t forgotten, but it’s pushed aside for another day, another time. Not avoided or ignored. Only had a pin put into it to be analyzed later, when they have more of the mental fortitude for it. For now, they are here, and they are together, and they are _laughing_ , and it is enough.

Dani believes it will always be enough. For as long as she still has, however long that it is.

Jamie is still determined to make that as long as they would otherwise hope for, without having to worry about the whole ghost situation.

Belief and hope are powerful things made even more powerful in the face of strong love.

Let us hope that their enough truly is.


	22. Chapter 22

You have started pacing again.

That’s the word for it – when you walk about your little room, from one wall to the other and then back again, opening your chest, opening your vanity, glancing at yourself in the mirror, placing your hand flat against the windowpane and staring out into what seems like an endless black expanse – that walking and retreading, the word for it is _pacing_ —

You find yourself doing it more and more often over the time following your last discussion with your host. She didn’t seem very appreciative of your efforts, but you made them all the same. Made yourself _useful_.

 _Like a good little wife_ , you hear something in the back of your mind saying, but you don’t know what’s saying it, and whatever it is – _whoever_ it is – makes you feel extremely uncomfortable. There’s no suggestion that you and your host are any form of married. You aren’t, and you do not want to be. But, still, there is something in you that _thrums_ with the remembrance of marriage and what it was for you, just out of reach.

You _know_ , and yet you cannot remember.

It’s something to do with the sister that you still only vaguely remember. _Perdy._ That can’t have actually been her name. That must have been a nickname, a shortening of it, a familiarity with her. It can’t be her _real_ name. But you can’t remember what her real name is either.

This is almost worse than remembering nothing at all – having only these fragments (or, when it came to _marriage_ , these _feelings_ ), vague and uncertain and there all the same – and having no way of piecing them together or making sense of them. Excavating your own mind and what it gave you to figure out some semblance of who you might once have been….

It is frustrating.

You clench the edge of your vanity, and you look down at the simply carved wood, and you grit your teeth together, and eventually you go back to the chest in your wall, open it, and stare at the dresses inside of it. They aren’t for you. They aren’t yours. They belong to someone else now. They’re for _her_ – whoever she is. The last you remember of your daughter, she was still a child, and you still don’t know what happened to her.

Your lips press together in a single line, and you take one of the dresses out, hold it against you, and find that it is fitted, tailored _exactly_ to your shape and size. Your brow furrows. If they aren’t yours, then why does this one _fit_ you?

Without a second thought, you discard your nightgown – which feels like it should be growing more and more threadbare from how long you have been wearing it, but apparently it is just as stubborn as you are in terms of _continuing to exist_ when perhaps it should have faded away long ago – and lift the dress over your head. It fits almost like a glove, but you can’t reach the back to lace it up. The dress won’t stay as it should and slumps forward, its arms slipping over your hands, and even so, you feel as though there should be something else beneath it as well. Something to hold her…steady.

You have wanted clothes for almost as long as you have been here, and although you have figured out ways for food and drink and books and utensils, _clothes_ are still beyond you. Perhaps it is that you only see yourself in the nightgown. Perhaps it is that when you tuck your host away, you see _her_ and you know that the clothes are _her_ choice and not your own.

There is not anything you can do about that. The clothes she wears will always be hers. Even if you tucked her away and bought clothes of your own, they would be tailored and designed to fit _her_ frame and not yours. There isn’t a way—

You press your lips together, and you fall back on your bed with the dress still wrapped around you.

You stare at the ceiling.

You close your eyes.

* * *

You come to in her body.

This is significantly easier than traveling through the jungle and across the fence. It’s a new way of doing things, one that you have only begun to figure out since she came to see you. It seems to you that this is the way she must travel, and so it is one that you have learned to mimic. There is less of a threat here. Less she can do to you. Less of an obstruction.

Of course, you do not tuck her away when you wander like this. There would be little purpose to tucking her away at random moments throughout the day. That would require you to have a much more intimate knowledge of her day-to-day life, as opposed to the tidbits you have picked up during your other wanderings, so that you might best mimic her when you need to. Or, perhaps, not even truly _mimic_ , just make sure that you do the things that need to be done.

She sits under a tree in the backyard, a blanket spread about her, resting her back up against its trunk, and she looks up at a sky that isn’t quite clear but is sunny all the same. White clouds like cotton are stretched here and there across the blue expanse, and you draw images from some of them. One of them looks almost like a rose, and that one? It looks like a heart with an arrow piercing it. Another one looks like—

Then she winces, and you can’t see the clouds anymore. She presses her fingers to the back of her neck, and you feel a rush of cold air. It doesn’t mean anything to you, although once, when you knew her less, it had turned you back to your own room because you hadn’t understood what it was and hadn’t had enough awareness to continue going. But as you became more aware, you’d pushed through. In fact, the first time you’d been in front of it, it had only pushed you further _ahead_ , and you’d stopped when she pinched the bridge of her nose because the path had abruptly stopped. You’d stayed because you were uncertain where to go until whatever it was that had compelled you to wander had, eventually, compelled you to turn back around and return to your room.

Back then, you hadn’t been entirely _conscious_ of anything. Certainly not the way you are now.

Sometimes, you aren’t sure if that is a good thing or not. There is a certain appeal to that lack of consciousness, that following of impulse. When you are less aware, you don’t have to be aware of what you have forgotten or the negative feelings your host has toward you. A part of you is certain that once you remember everything fully, you’ll want to forget again.

The thing about faded memories is that they don’t hurt near as much as new, sharp ones. Learning your life again will likely make it all new and sharp. Perhaps it is better to have forgotten.

She pinches the bridge of her nose, and you sit just at the edge of the path that you haven’t traveled.

“I know you’re there,” she says, annoyance littering her tone.

At first, you don’t say anything. What she doesn’t know – or perhaps she _does_ know, somewhere, but hasn’t realized – is that you have heard everything she’s said when you sit here behind her eyes. Everything bad she has said about you, every worry. You haven’t always understood them, but you’ve heard them.

You don’t ask if she wants you gone – the answer to that, you know, is _yes_. Instead, you ask, voice calm as you can make it, **Is this your garden?**

“It’s Jamie’s.” Her voice is soft, and she reaches up to touch the bark of the tree behind her. “She planted this tree a month after we moved in, right after—”

She doesn’t say it, but she remembers it, and as she remembers, _you see it_ – she remembers herself coming to sitting on their kitchen counter with a knife in her hand; you remember sitting on the counter, not knowing who you were, and offering a slice of your apple to someone who ended up not being who you remembered.

_You remember that someone else used to eat apple slices from your knife, but you do not remember who that was._

**I did not mean to startle you.**

“Of course, you didn’t.” There is a bit of bitterness to her tone. “You never mean to do _anything_ , do you?”

 **I mean to be here now.** You press your lips together, considering, and then choose not to say anything on that further.

She reaches back and tucks strands of her hair out of her face, but the breeze ruffles them back anyway. It has been so long since you have felt any breeze at all – air conditioning, although nice, is not the same thing in the slightest, and you have refused to tuck her away in most times when she would be out. How, then, would you feel the breeze? You can’t help but sigh with contentment.

Of course, you are not truly feeling the same breeze that she is. But she allows one to exist on this side of the fence so that you might feel it anyway. It is…oddly considerate of her. More considerate than you would expect her to be.

“Enjoying this, are you?”

**Quite.** You take a deep breath and let it out through your lips. There is silence for a few moments as your host leans her head back against the tree. It is still small, thin, more so than the ones you have planted on your side of the gate, but then, this one is real and so grows much more slowly than those within…wherever it is that you go when you are not here. She glances up through the thin branches and the few leaves that are finally beginning to sprout back to the clouds above. It is almost – _almost_ – calming.

Still. Something feels off.

**Is my being here bothering you?**

Her lips press together into a thin little line, and she continues to stare up at the sky. It takes long for her to respond – far longer than you would like – and you think that perhaps she will answer with that angry spite that you have often heard her use. Something about how your being here _always_ bothers her.

She lets out a deep breath of her own and continues to stare at the sky. “No more than you normally do.” It’s another second before she continues, “Actually, I would say it’s _less_ than you normally do. I don’t feel like you’re sitting there planning to kill me.”

**You should never have thought that in the first place.**

“You already tried to kill me once—”

**Which I have already explained I do not remember.**

“—and how was I to know that, exactly? You were the monster living in the back of my head. You still _are_.” Her teeth grit together, but she shakes her head. “Forget it. This is _just_ as bad as it normally is.”

You close your eyes again, but you remain where you are. **You are still afraid of me.**

“You haven’t given me any reason not to be.” Your host rolls her eyes. “You can _say_ whatever you want, doesn’t mean you might not still kill me at some point in the future if you change your mind.” She lets out her deep breath.

There isn’t anything you can say to that. Not anything _helpful_ , anyway. In fact, a part of you is quite certain that whatever you might say will only make things worse. You bite the tip of your tongue so that words do not fall from it.

“This is an apple tree, you know,” she continues when you are silent. She reaches back and knocks her knuckles against the harsh bark of the tree. “Sprouts like this can take eight years or so before we get any fruit from it at all, and there’s no way of knowing if the apples will actually taste any good. Just because you plant seeds from good fruit doesn’t mean more good fruit will grow; that is apparently _not_ how apple genetics work.” She smiles – you can feel it at the corners of your lips. “Jamie says that this one is from a creative crossbreed, so it _should_ be good. I hope, for her sake, that it is. If not, she’ll have to find someone who can make pies with the fruit. Maybe she can get Owen to come back and open a restaurant just next to her flower shop. She can supply him with all of the fruit he will ever need.”

**You speak as though you will not be here any longer.**

Your host takes another deep breath and nods. “I expect that you will have taken me over completely by then.” She doesn’t give you the space of a breath to interrupt her, forcing onwards. “Whatever grace you are having with me now, I expect you will be tired by then. You already want more and more. Eventually, you will want so much that _I_ will be the one who fades. Isn’t that how this works? One of us thrives and the other…. Well.” She flops one hand.

 **I do not know** , you admit. **I haven’t done anything like this before.** In the silence that follows, a bird lands among one of the branches of the apple tree. It says something – and, like so many other things, you cannot understand it. And yet, you can’t help but appreciate _hearing_ it. This, perhaps, is something she allows as well. **But I believe that if you do not want to fade away, then you will not fade away. I suspect whatever this is must be built between us.**

“And if I do not want to build anything?”

Your head tilts just so. **I do not think that you have that option. There is so much I have learned and relearned just by being here, despite everything you have done to prevent me from becoming. Your efforts unfortunately seem to have no effect on me. You are the only one who suffers.** You consider this for a second, and then you correct yourself. **Perhaps you are not the only one who suffers.**

She nods once. “You have been remembering more?” she asks, and for once, it seems like she is not _mad_ at you. She is still upset – you can feel her upset – but it doesn’t seem to be with you personally. That is a new relief.

 **I have** , you answer, tentative. **In bits and pieces. Not much.** Your brows furrow. **You remind me of someone, but I cannot remember who.**

“That isn’t helpful,” she murmurs.

 **I was not trying to be helpful, only to answer your question.** You lean back on the palms of your hands and look up, away from whatever it is she is searching for and into the feigned sky above you. This isn’t the _real_ sky. You know that. You can admit that, can accept it. Still, you see clouds above you and can try to find images within them just as certainly as she can try to find them in the ones above her. Your images might be more intentionally placed.

“No, I meant,” she says with brows furrowed, “if you don’t know who I remind you of, how can I know if that is a good thing or a bad thing? What if you _hated_ whoever it was?”

**Does it matter if I cannot remember who she is?**

She crosses her arms. “It matters to me.”

You laugh, a small thing. **Well, if I remember who it is, then I will let you know. Even if it is bad. Even if you would perhaps prefer not to know.** You sigh. **Although I am quite sure that I will not have occasion to remember. I barely remember my own name.**

Your host grows quiet then. It is long enough that you think that she must have decided to ignore you entirely again. Well enough. You have had more than enough of a conversation with her to squelch your growing boredom and distract you from the pacing you have been doing. It is something, and that is enough.

But before you are given chance to recede entirely, you hear her say, her voice soft, “You have a name?”

It’s a small thing, and you almost miss it entirely. Yet as soon as she says it, you feel something within you _still_. **Every creature has a name** , you say, hesitant, considering your words carefully. **You may not always know it, and they may not always be able to communicate it. In some cases, it is possible that some of them have forgotten that they have had a name at all.**

“You,” your host says, one of her hands clenching ever so gently on the fabric of the blanket beneath her. “ _You_ forgot your name.”

**Yes.**

“But you remember it now?”

 **Yes.** That is mostly true. You are certain that part of your name is still missing. Both your host and the woman she knows have surnames. You likely had one as well, something to identify you separate from other Violas. That, though, you do not remember. You are not sure how you would. Then again, you still do not understand how you have remembered anything so far, so perhaps, in time, you will remember it as well. You pick out what looks to be the shape of a bird in the clouds overhead. Something small, with a beak and wings stretched out and no legs to speak of.

“What is it?”

 **I thought you would prefer not to know** , you say immediately, the words biting from your lips although you do not intend for them to bite. **You seem desperate to continue to imagine me as something less than human. Being nameless helps with that pursuit. Are you truly sure that you wish to hear it?**

Your host sighs. “I’m Dani,” she says. Her head wobbles a bit in annoyance. “ _Danielle Clayton_ , though no one has called me that in years. My students always called me Ms. Clayton, but you aren’t one of those, I should hope, so Dani will suffice.” She appears across from you in the pathway, her arms crossed, and stares at you. “I would rather you have a name for me. I don’t want you to see _me_ as less than human.”

“I have never seen you as less than human,” you say, “once I realized that you were there at all.” It is a small thing – the closest to an acknowledgment of the raging, faceless being you had been before that you can give her. As much as she might say you were that thing – and as much as a part of you may have been it – you cannot see that thing as the full of you and are not sure you will ever be able to.

“And how do you see me?” Dani asks, staring at you.

A stare might be better than a glare, but it doesn’t mean that you will answer that question in the slightest. To answer it means that you will have to consider it, and since you haven’t considered it at all, you have no answer. Still, you cannot remain silent. “ _Full of light._ ” You smile, a playful thing.

Dani continues to stare at you, and she asks again, “What is your name?”

You don’t want to say it. You do not know _why_ , but you do not want to say it.

“Viola,” you say, and the word seems thunderingly loud, so much so that you can feel your insides flinch even as you remain standing still. “My name is Viola.”

Dani nods once, more to herself than to you. She mouths your name without saying it, brow furrowing, arms still crossed. “And your daughter?” she asks – because she pushes, she does, she makes you uncomfortable the same way you guess that you must make her.

“I would prefer not to talk about her. I believe I have said this before.” In point of fact, you know you have. It is _unfortunate_ that your host refuses to acknowledge that.

Dani nods once again, and then she is gone. You feel as though you could press yourself up through her again, so that you might look out into the real world, onto the grass that is just beginning to sprout through the remainders of the snow, grass that still appears just as bright and green as it did in the spring when it rains so cheerily, and yet…you have no desire to do so. As you decided before, this is enough. For now, this is enough.

And yet, you still want more and you _will_ still want more.

You are not sure you will ever be finished with wanting.

* * *

As soon as Dani feels the creature – the woman – _Viola’s_ presence vanish, she gets up. The ache between her eyes is gone, far past the path across her skull, not even the smallest gleam of pressure in that familiar spot at its back. She leaves the blanket beneath the tree, leaves the plate behind, and goes immediately back inside, into the living room, where the Shakespearean books rest. She remembers something – something from her dreams, that little bit of writing at the top right hand corner of the first page of the books – that small thing that looks a bit like the writing on the note did – and she pulls out _Twelfth Night_. No wonder the writing looked similar, no wonder that name had been circled and underlined so many times. It must have been her conscious – or _sub_ conscious – mind trying to tell her what it already knew: Viola’s name.

And there – of course – written in small handwriting, in a cursive print that she can only barely begin to read, is a name that, by now, she knows. Not necessarily well. Not _quite_ well. But it is certainly one that she recognizes.

 _Viola Lloyd_ , written in that tiny script, and beneath it, in a much more haphazard but barely legible script, was the name _Perdita Lloyd_ , and, finally, beneath that in even smaller, tidier script similar to that of the first writer was the name _Isabel Lloyd_.

Dani stares at the names. Of course, just because a name is written in the tops of these books doesn’t mean that _this_ Viola is the one living in the back of her mind, but she recognizes the name – _Viola Lloyd_ – from the rubbings Flora did while they were at Bly.

 _This must be her_ , Dani thinks, her lips still pressed together, _and these were her books long before they were ever mine._

Her brows furrow with thought. The rubbing Flora gave her – she hadn’t kept it, hadn’t _wanted_ to keep it – but if she remembered correctly, it was a rubbing of her gravestone. That means there should have been dates. There should have been birth _years_ , at least, which would give her some sort of idea of when the ghost in the back of her head might possibly have lived.

Not that she particularly _cares_.

No – the worst of it is that the more Dani considers the creature in the back of her mind as an actual, real woman, the more she _does_ care. She isn’t sure what that caring can do or how it will help her situation. If anything, it _doesn’t_ help. It makes things worse. Her body is her own, not something she wishes to share with another human being with thoughts and emotions and a life separate from her own.

The worst thing about having a heart is that sometimes it aches for someone that it shouldn’t ache for, someone detrimental to its continued existence. Viola might not mean to devour her, might not mean to destroy her, but the threat....

Sometimes, Dani thinks the continued belief of a threat is a lie, one that she is forcing down her own throat. But as much as she might _want_ to touch Viola, that doesn’t mean that she can. Not entirely. Not after only two conversations. That isn’t enough for a normal person, let alone for a ghost who, regardless whether she meant to do it or not, _did_ try to kill her.

Dani takes a deep breath, runs her right thumb over the names etched into the top right hand corner of the scarlet front page of the book, and then closes it, placing it back into its place on her shelf. Having names and a potential direction – returning to Bly – means nothing in the face of her current predicament. She isn’t going to be going back to Bly to chase the memories of her ghost. Not right now, and not any time soon. Not if she has anything to say about it.

And as long as the ghost isn’t aware that it is an option – or even something she might want – then she won’t ask for it. In fact, Dani isn’t sure Viola would ask at all. She doesn’t seem like the sort to do much asking.

So Dani straightens back up, nodding once to herself, and stares at the books as though they expect her to make a different, _better_ choice. But books don’t have to live as she does, and they don’t have the right to judge her.

No one does.


	23. Chapter 23

Jamie continues with the preparations for their summer getaway. She hasn’t told Dani their potential location yet; whenever Dani tries to ask, she just grins and says, _It’s a secret_ , with that wry grin of hers that Dani has become so accustomed to in the past years. Often, Dani leans over and presses a kiss to her cheek. Unfortunately, this has not yet gotten Jamie to tell her anything about it.

While Jamie continues planning their vacation, she has also been trying to get in touch with Owen. More and more of their letters are being returned to them with no reply instead of making their way to him, and it has been weeks since they have gotten any letters from him. Jamie isn’t worried; she says that he’s still in mourning and that sometimes such great grief needs the loneliness to begin to heal, but Dani isn’t sure she believes her. Loneliness hadn’t helped with her own grief over Eddie. In point of fact, it made matters worse. But, then, Owen held no guilt over Hannah’s death. Dani had the ghost of her dead best friend hovering around her to remind her of her part for far longer than Eddie himself would have held it against her. In Dani’s experience, it isn’t loneliness that helps with grief but _family_ and _purpose_. They had been able to be with Owen after his mother; they should still be with him now.

But her own grief – her own dread – looming overhead had prevented her from seeing that.

Just another thing that Dani can lay on the altar of things she has sacrificed to the ghost living in the back of her mind, regardless of whether Viola has asked for them or not. There is so much she has given to her. She wonders, sometimes, if Viola understands that. If she _can_ understand it.

It would be her place to explain it, if she wants, but Dani doesn’t feel like having another conversation with the woman right now. She thinks, perhaps, they do their best when they are still separate and not communicating with each other. She can’t be truly mad at – and certainly can’t care for – a ghost who only exists, who only comes out, when she is tucked away. She cannot be interested.

And yet, she finds that, somewhere, within the deepest pit of her chest, she is.

* * *

“I heard that you were looking for me?”

Dani lets out a sigh of relief. When Jamie said that someone on the phone wanted to talk to her, she felt a thrill of terror – the only people she can think of who would possibly want to call her (other than Jamie, who she is with) are her mother or someone from Eddie’s family. There is the potential that one of the Wingraves might call, but this is less likely. Even though they’d seen them over Christmas, Dani knows that she will likely not see Miles or Flora again for a long time. Henry is protective of them, as he should be, and spending time with Dani and Jamie only makes them remember Bly.

No one should have to remember Bly. (Let the adults bear the weight of that. Let what happened fade so thoroughly in the children’s minds that they forget it entirely, that they only remember her by name as someone who might be a friend. And yet, she almost cannot imagine any of them forgetting. She hopes, but she does not expect.)

“Owen,” Dani says, finally, wrapping the phone cord around her pointer finger. “Where have you been? We keep sending you letters, and they keep getting sent right back to us.”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t been getting my letters.” Owen’s voice is a little gruffer than she remembers it being, and she imagines him pursing his lips and sticking his free hand in his pocket. “I _have_ been sending letters.”

“We’ve been getting postcards.” Dani reaches across the kitchen counter and drags the latest one over. “This one’s from somewhere in India?”

“Ah.” Owen is silent for a few moments. He must be nodding, stroking his moustache. “I was there last month. I’m in Paris now.”

Dani pulls a pad of paper and a pen over. “What’s your new address? We’ll send you something. Hopefully you’ll get this one.”

“I gave Jamie my address earlier,” he says as Dani uncaps the pen. “How have you been? How is….” He hesitates, and his voice grows soft. “How are things with your ghost? Jamie says you don’t want to talk about it, and if you don’t, well enough. But figured I’d be a good friend and ask.”

“No, no, you’re fine for asking.” Dani presses her lips together, considering, and as she does, she begins to doodle, running the pen in little loops along the top piece of paper. “It’s better,” she says, finally. “She’s better.”

“Any progress? Any more notes?”

Dani sighs. “Next time you see me, maybe I’ll let you read one.” She curls the cord tighter about her finger. “Do you remember any of the gravestones at Bly?” she asks, nonchalant. She doesn’t plan to visit the manor if she doesn’t have to – not now, not any time in the future. It still looms too large in her mind for her to want to go back. But if someone else remembers, that’s something.

There is silence on the other end, and Dani is afraid that she has poked a finger into a wound that is still healing. Not just because Owen appears to still be mourning Hannah and bringing up Bly might make him think of her, but because the gravestones had been just outside the church or in the flooring beneath it. The chapel had been Hannah’s territory.

“Sorry,” Dani says almost immediately after asking. “That wasn’t fair of me. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, no, it’s okay. I just don’t remember.” Owen laughs the slightest bit. “My mind was usually on other things. Hannah’s the person you would have wanted to ask.”

Dani sighs again. She shouldn’t have asked. Even if the wound is steadily growing closed, its scab is still just that – a scab. It hasn’t scared, it hasn’t….

Well, how can she think that Owen’s wound should be healed when her own hasn’t? Its scab is thin and easily broken, and it feels like every time Viola rears her head, the cut reopens. By now, it should be infected. Maybe that, too, is what Viola is. Perhaps she is the wound itself, still oozing and bleeding, but slowly healing. Maybe that’s what her memories mean – healing.

“Why do you ask?” Owen asks, breaking through her thoughts.

Dani shakes her head, even though he can’t see it over the phone. “There are a few names written in the front of the plays Flora and Miles gave me. I’m trying to track them down. I thought one of them was on one of the headstones, but I wasn’t sure.” She winces. “I don’t want to go back and see.”

Her gaze returns briefly to Jamie, who is sitting on their couch, one leg tucked under herself, watching her curiously. She has to be listening in – Dani _knows_ she is because she listens in on Jamie’s phone calls, too. Not that they _have_ phone calls all that often. They have a handful of friendly acquaintances around town, but most of the time when someone calls it is for them to watch their house or for advice on their plants – or because she has checked a book out of the library and forgotten to return it. (This last one has happened more often than she would like to admit.)

But still – one of Jamie’s brows rises as she overhears what Dani is saying. Dani covers the mouthpiece on the phone and stares at her. “We’re not going back to Bly.”

“I didn’t suggest we go back, Poppins. Just thought it was weird you were talking about it.”

Dani’s eyes narrow – not quite a glare, not quite a stare – and she shakes her head before removing her hand from the mouthpiece. “Sorry about that. Jamie had a question.”

“I would have some questions, too, but I’m not going to ask them.”

Dani smiles and decides that now would be an appropriate time to change the subject. “Are you thinking about staying in Paris for a while?”

“I don’t know,” Owen admits. “I love Paris, and I would love to _stay_ in Paris. It was my greatest dream, moving back here and starting my own restaurant with Hannah. We would have taken the world by storm, you know.”

“I know.” Dani can’t help the soft expression coming across her face, even though she knows Owen can’t see it. “We were hoping that over Christmas we might visit you, instead of the other way around. Family should be with each other for the holidays, and—”

“—you’re all the family I’ve got left?” Owen finishes with a little chuckle. “Dani, I’m not sure that—”

“No, we’re the only family _Jamie’s_ got,” Dani corrects, and she meets Jamie’s eyes as though checking to make sure that her words are correct. Jamie’s eyes widen the slightest bit, but she gives a little nod of agreement. As much as they might not wish for it, the statement is still true. “Me and you. We’re her family. What’s left of it. We should be together for the holidays.”

Owen lets out a sigh with a soft “ _Ah_ , I see.” He takes a moment, likely stroking his moustache in contemplation. “Never really thought about Jamie as my little sister, but I can see it now.” There’s another moment, and Dani hopes that he is smiling. “Alright, then,” he says finally. “We’ll meet up over Christmas. I’ll call ahead so that you know wherever it is I’m going, if I’m not here, but—” His voice fades out.

“I hope you _do_ stay in Paris,” Dani makes out. “Having a stable place with friends can help with everything, even if those friends don’t know anything about what has happened. It’s….” She sighs and pushes her hair back out of her face. “After Eddie, that’s what Bly was. Being with all of you. It was nice. I almost wish I had gotten there sooner. Maybe, if I had—”

“Don’t think about that. Things could have been worse just as easily as they could have been better.”

And yet Dani can’t stop herself from thinking it, not the first time she had – _Maybe if I had been there sooner, Hannah would not have died._ It is an empty wish, an empty thought. She can’t saddle herself with the weight of _two_ deaths. One had been more than enough, and Hannah….

Hannah wasn’t her fault. Hannah wasn’t the fault of anyone left living. Not even Miles.

“What I’m saying is that you might feel better if you settled somewhere and made some friends. It helps,” Dani says, voice firm. “Really, it does. I wouldn’t be saying it if it didn’t.”

Of course, Dani leaves out that it had taken her six months before applying to the position at Bly and longer still traveling Europe before that. Eddie had been dead even longer before she had made it to Europe; she had been teaching when his death occurred, and she’d finished out the school year out of an odd sense of obligation to her kids. They told her she didn’t have to stay, but the distraction had been…nice. It had been easier to avoid mirrors there. But she couldn’t _stay_ there, not with the way that everyone treated her, not with the way she was treating herself – she _had_ to go. She had to wander.

It feels like that is what Owen is doing now.

“Thanks for the advice, Dani. I’ll keep that in mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note ahead of time - the next two chapters are relatively long. I'm not quite finished with the rough of the second of them BUT it IS really long in comparison with the other chapters in this fic so far. So just - heads up on that. Might also be a bit before the next chapter gets posted because I don't know just how much longer that chapter will be.


	24. Chapter 24

You feel something bubbling within you over the next several days, but you do not know what the feeling is.

This is different from those early days when you first found yourself in the room again, when you wandered and found the jungle and its path, when you found the white picket fence with its gate and rusted lock and key. This isn’t a feeling that you think you _could_ put words to if you only knew them; you have read so many things and started conversations, you have relearned words and learned new ones, and you have gotten better at pinpointing the exact right words to convey and label what you are feeling. But whatever this feeling is, it lays beyond all of that. You do not have words for it. The closest one might be _unease_.

You cannot say what is causing the feeling. Everything seems to be continuing the same as it was before – you wake, you converse with Jamie, you drink a cup of tea, and you read. When you are back in your room, you sit on your bed and you read more. You run your finger over the circled _Viola_ s in _Twelfth Night_ , and you leave your room for more fruit and water. Sometimes you glance at the other side of the moat, at the gate and the lock, and you consider exploring before deciding against it.

Still, the scent of the fruit that you haven’t tasted is mouth-watering.

You pace in your room. You walk down your path. You tend to your trees, although they don’t need much tending. You explore your jungle and still find no birds, no insects, no animals. There is still no breeze. It is not quite like a moment frozen in time, but sometimes, it feels that way. You grow increasingly uneasy – or not quite, but that is the word that is closest.

Something is coming. Something is building. Something is—

No. That feels wrong. There is nothing to suggest any of that. You do not know why you feel that way.

You are uneasy and you are uncomfortable and the word for what you are feeling many would call **anxious** , but you have read the word and do not feel like it applies. _Wary_ , maybe, but not so much as to be paranoid.

Something is off. You do not know what. You do not know why. You do not know how.

But, as most things in this landscape are connected to your host and her mental state, you feel that this, too, must be linked to her subconscious in some way, state, or form. It must be on her account. The question is whether it is a conscious decision or an unconscious one. You are not sure she would answer you if you asked.

But you know who might.

* * *

“I can’t tell you,” Jamie says, pushing a hand through her rumpled auburn hair. She leans back in the chair with a beleaguered sigh. This isn’t the first time she’s chosen the chair over the opposite arm of the sofa, and it probably will not be the last. You think it has to do with her conversations with your host. She grows cold during your conversations over Shakespeare. Sometimes, you share a blanket; sometimes, you share warmth. You are never very close to each other, but you think your host is not comfortable with the two of you growing comfortable with each other. You haven’t told her not to worry because you feel as though that would defeat the purpose. If anything, such a comment might only make her grow _more_ worried.

At least this way you are given room to stretch when her legs grow cramped from being in the same position for too long. That is a relief. And yet, it is nice that her body responds with pain. Yours still does not bleed when it is scratched by the barbed wire. Perhaps it is because yours is only an image, and neither of you believes that you can bleed. Not enough for it to happen.

Your brows furrow as you stare at the other woman, and your fingers tap on the hardbound back of your chosen book. “Whyever not?” you ask. “Is there a particular reason that you are unable to tell me what the problem is?”

Jamie sighs again, teeth grinding against each other, and looks away from you. “I can’t tell you that either, ghostie. It’s between Dani and….” She pauses, considers, and then sighs again, kneading her forehead with one hand. “Dani.”

“Are the two of you fighting again?” You cannot think of any reason that Jamie shouldn’t explain to you if that were the case, but it’s the only thing you can imagine being the issue. Then again, there have been few boundaries such as this one put into place in your conversations, perhaps because it is expected that you could watch any of _their_ conversations whenever you want, even if you rarely want.

You have taken great care to let your host maintain her own life the way she desires, if only to bolster better relations between the two of you. It does not seem to have helped much at all, but you know that if you did otherwise, it would be a detriment. Dani does not trust you. Giving her space seems to help with that. Sometimes.

“No, it’s nothing like that.” Jamie leans forward, resting her wrists on her knees, hunched almost completely over, but keeps her head out of her hands so that she can look directly at you. “I think this is one of those things you’re just going to have to ask her about.”

Your eyes widen, and you give one great, solemn nod, lips curving into a pleased smile. “So it _does_ have something to do with her,” you say, measuring each word carefully. “I thought I might be going a little off-kilt again. Good to know that I’m not.”

“Yeah, sure, _great thing there, Vi_.” Jamie pushes a hand through her hair again. She groans. “It’d be best if you didn’t ask her at all. Don’t think she’ll much appreciate it.”

“Well, _I_ don’t much appreciate someone else’s anxiety coming through so strong that it colors my own perceptions. It is most uncomfortable.” You place the book to one side and wrap one arm around your knee, holding it against your chest. “I am sure she would say the same thing, if I could do such to her.”

Jamie rolls her eyes. “Bloody good thing you _can’t_. Poppins would have been raging for _months_ until you learned to calm down. That would have been a fucking fright. Don’t think I would’ve been able to stand it.”

One of your brows raises. “You would have left her?”

“No. ‘Course not.” Jamie reaches over, lifts her cup of tea as though it is a toast, and then takes a deep drink of it. “Just would’ve made things harder, is all. We’ve already dealt with hard. That would have just been another obstacle. We could have made it.”

 _Unless she told you to leave_ , you think, although you know better than to say it. Your host might, in a fit of temper, cast Jamie out, but she would regret it soon after. From their previous experience, you would expect that Jamie would stay long enough for them to reconcile, but you know better than to hope for it. Besides, none of that matters. It didn’t happen, so why consider it?

“Well, if we cannot talk about that,” you say, taking the book again, “perhaps we should resume our last conversation.”

If it is possible, Jamie gives an even deeper, more disgruntled sigh. She doesn’t enjoy this. You know that she doesn’t enjoy this. But Dani hasn’t offered to talk with you over these things, and you like to discuss the stories with someone. Even if they hate it starting out. You’ve found that Jamie doesn’t hate the stories so much as she hates the way they are written. She has a hard time understanding him.

You find it easier to read Shakespeare sometimes than it is to try and translate what Jamie and Dani are talking about. And translating Shakespeare into bite-sized pieces for Jamie helps to stretch your understanding of their language. It is a _good_ thing.

This is what you tell yourself as you deal with her groans and frustrations during your continued conversation.

* * *

It is that time of year.

Dani doesn’t like to think about it. In fact, she tries to _avoid_ thinking about it. She finds ways to keep herself busy – _distracted, even_ , some might say – so that she doesn’t have mental space to think about it. But the problem is that no matter how much she tries to avoid or ignore or distract, the thought still worms its way into her chest like it might through an apple just fallen from the tree and beginning to rot.

The anniversary of Eddie’s death.

Even though she hasn’t seen his ghost since their time at Bly – and even though his particular ghost was not the same as the ghosts she had met there – Dani can’t help but be apprehensive that he will return, just to see her on the day of his death. Viola – _the lady of the lake_ – is proof that people could come back, vengeful and angry and empty and undiscerning, to hurt and haunt the people left behind, and while Dani doesn’t think that Eddie will do the same, it’s…hard to pretend that ghosts can’t or don’t exist when there is one literally living in the back of her mind.

Truth be told, Dani doesn’t even think about Eddie very often anymore. She still has a few pictures of him, but they’re hidden away. _Far_ away. At first, it was because she hadn’t wanted to remember, hadn’t want the pictures to bring back the guilt that caused his ghost, but eventually, it became a way of hiding them from the other ghost, from Viola. It isn’t something she wants to share. Not that Viola has particularly nosed her way into a lot of Dani’s things. Not as far as she knows, anyway.

Just her mind.

Just her body.

Just her—

Dani shakes her head. Not thinking about that. Not thinking about ghosts at all. _Not at all._

And yet her stomach churns as the day grew closer.

Last year, of course, it hadn’t been so bad. Dani had spent most of her time with Jamie. She hadn’t woken up on the sofa, left there by a ghost who hadn’t thought to return her to her bed before abandoning the use of her, and they’d had a normal day – flower shop, library, cooking, dinner. It had been almost normal, save for the anxiety and guilt making Dani feel nearly sick all day.

Jamie had told her to stay home, she remembers that, but she couldn’t. Being alone was _worse_ than being with people was. She’d needed to be with someone, needed to distract herself. And work – even retail work – was a worthwhile distraction.

Still.

Dani takes a deep breath and pushes her hands through her hair and shivers with anticipation.

You feel the _something_ bubbling up within you again – the anxiety that is not yours and which you cannot control – and you think that while now is not the best time to meet with your host, it is unwise to put it off any longer. She doesn’t like when you interfere with her life, and this – whatever it is – you don’t like it interfering with you. There’s something about it that is upsetting and unsettling, and while you do not worry that it will stroke the flames of that almost endless rage that still boils within you on the odd occasion, you do not want to take the risk.

Murderer or not, you don’t want to be out of control again. You don’t want to feel _insane_ again.

Truth be told, you never really felt insane, but from what she says of the you that could not remember, somehow that seems like one of the best words to describe you. Not truly sane, not truly stable, not truly _there_ at all. Perhaps it is not insanity as some might now call it, but it certainly felt like it to you.

Now it just feels like an odd case of amnesia.

That doesn’t matter. You close your eyes and ignore the wall and the moat entirely, making your presence known to your host.

The pressure builds in the back of Dani’s head, and before she can even think about it, her fingers are at that soft spot between the two muscles at its base, not that it does much good. The pressure travels between her lobes, across her skull, and rests between her eyes. She doesn’t pinch her nose this time. It doesn’t help. It never helps. She cannot get rid of the habit that Hannah Grose once had, but that one?

_She tries._

“What is it?” she asks, not staring at herself in the mirror, not willing to see the potential reflection she might see. Now that Viola has a face, she is unsure if she would see the creature she once saw or if she would see Viola herself staring back at her. She isn’t sure she wants either. The latter is certainly not better than the former. It is only slightly less terrifying. “I’m not in the mood for a conversation right now.”

Dani pulls her hair back into an untidy ponytail and then grips the sink with both hands. She stares into the bottom of the sink. The faucet isn’t on, but she can still hear it dripping.

Drip.

Drip.

Dri—

 **Something is wrong with you** , Viola says, and her voice echoes in Dani’s head like a second conscience.

“Something is wrong with you, too,” Dani replies, taking a deep shuddering breath. She feels sick. She shouldn’t feel sick. Why does she feel sick?

Dani can hear the woman sighing in the back of her mind, can almost feel the harsh breath puffed out inside her skull. There’s no pressure to it. She can’t describe it. But it feels _unnatural_. She closes her eyes and, after a brief moment of focus, finds herself back in the jungle, on the side of the gate that the ghost considers hers. She stands just inside the gate, staring out across the moat, and sees Viola staring back at her.

“Just because there is something wrong with me does not mean that there is something wrong with you,” Viola says, and although the moat is thick between them, Dani can hear her as though they are standing just next to each other, as though she isn’t yelling at all. And maybe she isn’t. Viola smiles – a smug thing, which strikes Dani because it feels like the ghost is _always_ smug about something, and how can she be so smug when she is _dead?_ “I’m dead,” Viola says as if Dani wasn’t just thinking about it, “but I can still speak and breathe just as well as you do. I’m not sure I would consider that something _wrong_ with me. The dead part, perhaps.”

Dani’s eyes narrow, and she wonders if she appears just as clear to Viola as the other woman does to her. The breeze pushes her hair back out of her face as she crosses her arms. “The _taking control of my body_ and _intruding where I don’t want you_ are also problems.”

Viola’s face blanks, as though she is trying to appear serene. “Those are problems you have with me, not something that is wrong with me. I believe that it would be far better for you to say that I have problems with boundaries or invasion of privacy.”

“Quit nitpicking my words when you know what I mean.” Dani glares at the ghost. “I was trying to have a moment out there, and you interrupted me—”

“What do you mean _have a moment?_ ” the ghost asks, blinking at her. “I don’t know this phrase.”

Dani groans. “Never mind. It isn’t important.”

“It _is_ important, or you wouldn’t be chastising me for interrupting.”

The breeze pushes at Dani’s back, harsh, as though it wants nothing more than for her to go forward, to the other side of the gate. It blows her hair in her face, and she coughs a couple of times, trying to pull it back into a hasty, impromptu ponytail. “Just drop it,” she says, still glaring at the ghost. She doesn’t want to go to the other side. It is far too quiet there. At least on this side of the gate she can hear cicadas chirruping away in the jungle. Which, to be fair, doesn’t make sense because cicadas don’t really live in the jungle and even if they did, they shouldn’t be around during the winter, not that it’s entirely winter here—

Who decides the weather here, anyway?

And Dani knows, without asking the ghost, what her answer would be. Subconsciously, _she_ must control the weather. It’s just another thing she would be blamed for that she doesn’t know that she controls and doesn’t know how to change and likely _wouldn’t_ change if she could.

“Something is _wrong_ with you,” the ghost repeats, staring at Dani from the other side of the moat. “You are anxious for something, and if you will allow me to help soothe you, then—”

“You can’t _soothe_ anything,” Dani finds herself snapping without thinking. “You make things worse just by being here.” She groans and kneads her forehead. “I don’t know why I’m even having this conversation.”

_Because you actually want the help_ , you think but do not say aloud.

It is enough that your host has come into this shared world at all. You had expected her to remain in the real world and communicate with you there instead of returning here, and while she maintains her position on the other side of the gate, it is still something. More than normal. More than you expected.

That’s a step in the right direction, albeit a small one.

You wonder if she thinks the gate will protect her. You have already explained that it does not do what she subconsciously wants it to do – it doesn’t keep you from traveling to the other side if you so desire. The wall is high enough that someone jumping from the top of it should shatter their bones when they land, and yet you never do because your true bones likely turned to dust centuries ago. The pikes and barbed wire should scratch and pierce your skin, and while they can do both of those things to some extent, they do not cause lasting damage and you do not bleed. The moat should be impassable for anyone who needs to breathe, and yet you can walk along the bottom of it and up to the other side without any issue. That is, of course, what you have been doing for the past however many centuries you were stranded at the bottom of the lake.

But you do not move closer to her. You know that doing so would only spook her.

Still. You are growing quite tired of appeasing her skittish nature. Every so often, you think that you should do something that would prove to her….

What?

Anything of true power you could do would only serve to frighten her more, would only destroy the little good will you have built up over the past several months. At worst, it would cost you your conversations with Jamie, and while you are certain that the gardener still doesn’t truly care for you, it’s…more than you would have otherwise. It appeases your loneliness. It isn’t worth the risk.

You step forward anyway, and you watch her flinch. You have no intention of crossing the moat. In fact, you only bend down just on your side of it, fill your cup with cold refreshing water, and then brush your hair out of your face when it falls about it.

There is a breeze on her side of the gate. You have seen her reacting to it.

Of course, there is a breeze on _her_ side of the gate. Her side is full of life. Yours is full only of you.

“Forgive me for trying to help. Your anxiety is seeping through the gate, and I am growing tired of feeling panicked with no aim and no way to quell it.” You glance up and across the moat then crook a finger at your host, gesturing her over before she says anything. “Let me make you a cup of tea, and let us talk for a few moments. You might not like me, but I can be a good listener if you allow me to prove it.”

_“You always listen to him, and you never listen to me!_

_You are my sister! It was supposed to be the two of us against the world!”_

_“I am_ married _, Perdita.”_

_You do not grit your teeth,_

_do not try to argue with her._

_You would win an argument._

_That is one of your strong suits._

_All quail beneath your barbed tongue._

_“My husband must take priority over your pettiness._

_You would do well to learn how to run the manor,_

_should anything happen,_

_and yet_

_you refuse to do anything that might distract you_

_from what_ you _desire._

_You have no sense of duty.”_

_Your sister’s face scrunches up into an angry scowl._

_She is always doing that now._

_Her hatred of you radiates outward,_

_mingling with your constant frustration with her._

_“You are so caught up with duty that you forget what it is like to_ live _, dear sister.”_

You shake your head, pressing your fingers to your temple, and glance up. Your host has said something. You _know_ she has said something, the lingering presence of her voice echoes in your ears, although you cannot guess what it is that she said. Something venomous, no doubt. Something distrusting.

And yet, there is still that small hope that she will do otherwise.

“What did you say?” you ask, focusing on her once more, refusing to dwell on the fact that this new memory has made mention of your husband. “I couldn’t hear you.”

_Couldn’t hear me?_

Dani stares at Viola, not certain she believes her. If she can hear Viola’s voice as though the other woman is standing just next to her, then she is certain that the reverse must be true for her as well. There is no reason that the ghost should not have heard her. She just wasn’t paying attention. Ironic, considering her claim to be a good listener.

“Are you going to show me how to make _tea_ , too?” Dani repeats, unable to keep the slightest bitterness out of her voice. She hates to admit it – and won’t, if asked – but Jamie had been _grateful_ to find that she’d learned how to make better coffee. It was an uphill learning curve for _her_ , but she is getting better at it. Slowly but surely.

It is hard to remember not to doctor the entire pot when that is how she has always made coffee before. Dani guesses that it is similar to having to learn how to make smaller portions in cooking instead of making bulk to feed an entire family. She isn’t very good at it. But it makes Jamie happy, so she will learn.

Dani doesn’t wait for a response. She looks at the gate, at the wall, at the moat. Viola might have no trouble getting across, but she has no intention of climbing steep walls and jumping and ripping her clothes against barbed wire and pretending she can swim across that great big moat. No, thank you. Not smart.

On the other hand, she isn’t going to invite Viola over to this side either. Not when she’s still frustrated with her for interrupting her in the first place.

(And yet, a part of her aches to sit and drink tea and talk, even if it _is_ with a ghost. Jamie knows so much already. Viola knows nothing. That might be a better distraction. Doesn’t that sound crazy? Spending time with a ghost because she is tired of previous dealings with another ghost; spending time with one dead person to avoid her guilt of not spending time with another one? Might as well just visit Eddie’s tomb and get over with it.)

( **She hasn’t been to Eddie’s tomb since they buried him, and she has no intention of ever doing so again.** )

Dani sighs and closes her eyes, thinking again. How did she end up on the other side of the gate that first time? Was it simply because Viola had been expecting her, because the ghost had been open to her visit? If so, then why hadn’t she ended up there this time?

She takes another deep breath, keeps her eyes closed, and wills herself to the other side of the gate.

The breeze stops. The buzzing of insects and the chirping of birds disappears. The world feels _cold_.

Dani shudders once before opening her eyes, knowing that she has made it to the other side of the gate before she even does so. She stands on the path just next to Viola – closer than she had intended – and she jumps when she realizes how close they are. She backs up, away from the ghost and away from the moat, hands out.

Viola watches her with that overly steady gaze, and that makes her uncomfortable, too. “I’m not going to hurt you. You know that.”

“Knowing it and believing it are two different things entirely,” Dani says, letting her hands drop to her sides. Her fingers ball into fists without her even thinking about it. “You said something about tea?”


	25. Chapter 25

Viola does not want to open her room to her. Dani can sense that straight away. There is the same sort of hesitancy that she has when it comes to the gate, when it comes to talking with her at all. But she can’t help but be curious about how the ghost even makes tea. She hasn’t seen a stove in this room before, nor has she seen anything to heat water to the boil necessary to make tea.

But it seems as though that is not why they are here in the slightest. Viola moves about the room with the practiced ease of someone who wholly lives here, flitting from one drawer to the next. Her unease keeps Dani from actually entering. Instead, she stands just inside of the doorway, watching her and trying to file away what she is doing so that she can remember it the next time she dreams herself here, provided she is lucid enough to do whatever it is Viola is doing.

Then the ghost gestures her inside the room and, taking a deep breath to steady herself, Dani follows.

“You need me for something?”

“What flavor would you like?” Viola gestures to the drawer, where a thin basket holds an assortment of different tea packets.

There seems to be some sort of organizational system in place – fruity herbals separated from the more bitter ones, black teas to one side, green teas to another. Further back in the drawer is a little pot, but Dani suspects that isn’t for the tea itself. Likely it has sugar cubes inside. “Um,” Dani says, tucking her hair back behind one ear. “This one.” She draws out a packet of ginger cinnamon tea. Not the best for dealing with her anxiety (that would go to chamomile or lavender or _mint_ , which is what Jamie prefers when she goes herbal), but it’s warm and it _tastes_ warm and comforting. And a little bit like Christmas, if she’s honest. It’s the cinnamon. She’d put it in everything if she could.

(This has been one of Jamie’s complaints. _Cinnamon does not go in coffee._ But there are cinnamon creamers, so she can’t be right about that. Besides, it tastes good to her!)

Viola takes the packet between her thumb and forefinger, places it in one of the teacups (both of which are a deep blue with creamy stars speckled about them, although one has a huge chip in its side), and then hands the cup over to Dani. “Keep track of your cup,” she says, tapping it once with one long finger. “Don’t lose it.”

Dani looks at her curiously. “How would I lose a cup?”

“The same way you lose other things. You place them somewhere, intending to remember where, only the memory fades.” Viola meets Dani’s eyes. “If that memory fades here, then the cup will be lost entirely. I cannot make a new cup for you.”

Dani’s eyes widen as Viola passes her, back out into the hallway, carrying her cracked cup of stars, the pot of water, and the pot with – _hopefully_ – sugar inside. “You _made_ these?”

At first, Viola doesn’t say anything as Dani follows her. It isn’t until they are back outside, at what looks to be a fire pit with a fire steadily flickering away inside, that she answers her. “No.” She places her metal teapot over the fire and sits on a log just outside of it, holding her cup with both hands. “I remembered it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I cannot explain it.” Viola stares into the flickering flame, her words never anything other than calm. “I remember the pot, the cups, the sugar, the creamer. I remember the books. I remember my bed, my vanity, and the trunk full of clothes. They are there just as I remember them.”

Dani stares at her, still confused. “You mean from your life?”

“Some of it, yes, but I doubt all of it comes from there.” Viola’s full lips press together in a thin smile. “Some of it I’ve scavenged from your side of the gate. That is where I found the fruit to plant my trees, and that is where I found this.” She nods to the fire. “Something in your mind was burning. It sent ash through my stream – when I had a stream, before it was diverged to create the moat. I went to find out what was causing the problem and found the fire. I did my best to put it out, but this…. Well.” She smiled, smug. “I thought it would be useful.” She gestured with one hand. “It never goes out. Nothing changes here.” A pause, then, as though correcting herself, “Except for the trees.”

Viola says this as though the trees themselves are the most miraculous thing of all, and perhaps, thinking about it, they are. If everything on this side of the gate is as dead as Viola herself, then the growth of something new, something _living_ , would be nothing short of a miracle. But Dani remembers the apple she’d bitten into so long ago, remembers how bitter and ashen it had tasted to her. She wonders, briefly, if it tastes that way to Viola, too, or if the ghost is only able to taste the sweetness of it. Worse, if these fruit trees came from fruit on her side of the gate, would her own fruit taste just as broken?

No. Of course not. Jamie taught her about that when they’d planted their own apple tree, hadn’t she? Just because the seeds used to start an apple tree came from a sweet apple doesn’t mean that they will reproduce apples of that same flavor when the tree begins to bear fruit. It is so much more complicated than that. Funny that this imaginary mind fruit should have the same qualities – the same results – as _real_ fruit.

Then again, if how this world works is based on her subconscious, maybe that’s not so funny at all.

The teapot lets out a sharp whistle, and Viola carefully takes it from the fire. Dani winces as she watches Viola’s bare fingers touching a metal pot that must be burning her skin, but on second glance, it appears as though what would destroy her hands in real life has no effect on Viola at all. The woman flinches the slightest bit when she first touches the pot, but past that, there is nothing. She pours boiling water first into Dani’s cup and then into her own. Then she glances up. “You have made your own cup of tea, have you not?”

Dani’s eyes narrow. “I have!” she exclaims. Then she stares at the cup. “Mostly I make it in the pot, not in my own cup. One packet seems a little much. Are you sure this is right?”

Viola takes a little breath, glances upward, and lets her gaze rest on the sky for the briefest of moments.

It is an action that Dani is extremely familiar with. When she was younger – when her mother still cared and her father was still around – the entire family would make the trek to church. They weren’t the _every time the doors are open_ sort of people, although they easily could have been – her mother loved talking to everyone, and her father had his own group to talk over the latest sports game. The sport didn’t matter as much as the talking did, as much as the team lines did. Her father was a Cowboys and Cardinals fan. She still remembers that, even so many years later. Her father was a Cowboys and Cardinals fan.

_But that is beside the point._

Dani remembers, even as a small child, the way some of the women would look up towards the sky whenever she said something that disturbed them or confused them or even just strained their good feelings. Except they weren’t looking at the sky, they were looking up at God, plaintive, as though asking for His help dealing with her.

In the years after her father left, her mother still made that gesture every now and again, but she’d done so less and less often as time went by. Dani doubts that had anything to do with her personally. If anything, she thinks it had more to do with how much more her mother had been drinking. Never enough for anyone else to notice, just enough for Dani to realize that she would never be enough.

“I didn’t peg you for a religious woman,” Dani says, watching Viola.

The woman glances over to her, and the look she gives is paralyzing. “I wasn’t,” she says, and venom drips from her lips. It is the harshest thing that Dani has ever heard the ghost say. The only thing worse was when she did that whole _unhinged jaw yell_ bit, which probably had more to do with her jaw moving in a way it really wasn’t supposed to than the actual yelling.

“Sorry,” Dani says, hands up with her palms out in an expression of annoyed apology, her teacup resting in her lap. “It was just a question.”

“It was a _statement_ ,” you correct, “and your earlier assumptions were quite adequate.”

You force yourself to stare into the flickering flames again, to take a deep breath and still that ceaseless rage that bubbles up again in the center of your chest. You don’t know why that bothered you as much as it did. Most of the time, you can guess at why the rage has returned – but this time, it is quite beyond you.

Of course, you had acknowledged your previous ties to a church you did not believe in before. There was a verse you remembered – one that your host knew as well – so you must have sat through those lectures and must have remembered some of it. And yet, when you think of it in any further focus, the only thing you can feel is that rage in the center of your chest stoking itself. You cannot say why. Perhaps this, too, is a memory that you should unlock. You certainly cannot imagine why you would have gone through those lectures unless you enjoyed them. More, you wouldn’t have chosen to _remember_ anything from them if they weren’t, in some way, shape, or form, important.

And yet what you have told your host still rings true. You would not consider yourself religious. Even less so now that you are a ghost, stuck in the body of another young girl, who apparently has remained here on this earth murdering people in a bout of endless rage and loneliness instead of…moving on.

Somehow, you are certain that this is your own fault, that somewhere you had been given a choice – not one so dry or clear cut as you might imagine it to be, but one that was given over and over and over until you’d forgotten the option to do anything other than what you were doing was there at all.

You let your gaze return to your host as she remains silent, and you nod to her. “Like this,” you say, lifting your packet out of your teacup and then placing it back in. “You let the tea steep longer to draw out more flavor. Not too long, or the flavor will grow bitter.”

Your host stares at you, her face blank. “Why would anyone want less flavor? Wouldn’t that just be watery?”

“Some people prefer their tea to have a more subtle profile.” You smile at her. “I am not one of them either.”

“And how will I know when it turns bitter?”

“Well, if you want strong flavor, follow my lead. Take yours out when I take mine out, and then make it to your taste from there.” You watch as she begins to take the packet out and then places it back in. “You normally put multiple packets in a pot?”

Your host nods. “Put a few in a pot, let it steep for a while, take the packets out, and put in a lot of sugar.” She smiles, focusing on her cup instead of on you. “Where I was raised, we’d put in the fridge after that and let it cool. Drink it with a slice of lemon and ice. It’s _great_ when it’s all hot out.”

You make a face and shake your head. “That sounds horrible.”

“It tastes good to me,” she says. Then she turns to face you, blinking twice. “You’d probably like it if you tried it.”

“I quite doubt it.” You chuckle. “No wonder Jamie doesn’t like your tea. We don’t make that sort of thing around here.” You lift your packet from your cup and throw it into the fire, where it will burn until nothing but ash remains. Your host follows suit. “Try one sugar first,” you say as you pick two from their pot. “Sweeten it more if you need more, but remember that you can’t take it out once you’ve put it in.”

Your host snorts. She lifts a hand to her nose, covers her mouth, but does not quiet the little chuckle that escapes her lips. “I’m sorry,” she says, and it is perhaps the first time you have ever heard her offer you an apology that she actually means. “You probably don’t think that’s funny.”

“It is a joke I do not understand,” you answer, “and am perfectly fine without your explaining it. I don’t want to know.” You take a sip of your tea, barely watching as your host takes a sip of her own. Her face blanches, and she reaches over, takes another two sugar cubes, and stirs them both into her tea. “You’re a sweet tooth.”

“No, I’m not. It just tastes _bad_.” Dani makes a face. “Do you have any creamer? That might help.”

You nod. “There is an ice box—”

“Where do you get ice?”

You press your lips together. “In much the same way that this fire continues to burn without needing anything added to it, any snow or ice I take from your side of the gate over here maintains its frozen….” You stop. There is a word for this. There is a better way to say it. And yet, you struggle to remember it. You wave your hand dismissively. “It doesn’t melt.”

“Ah.” Dani nods once, slowly. “And you made a box for it?”

“You did not give me one,” you say, and you mean nothing mean by it, “and so I learned to make do with what I had.” You smile – more to yourself than to her. “If not for that, I would likely keep it cool by leaving it in the moat, and then you really _would_ have no way to get to it, would you?”

Dani glares at you, but there isn’t the same sort of venomous hatred that was there before. “That isn’t funny.”

“I thought it was.” You wave your hand dismissively again. “The ice box is near the house. You should find it easily enough. Unless you would rather I act as your servant and get the cream for you.”

“Would you?” Dani asks, eyes brightening. “That would be _so_ great. I would love—”

“No.” Your smile tenses, and you feel that _upset_ again. That doesn’t make any sense. It was a joke. You had only meant to jest with your host, and now you feel _annoyed_ that she would request you serve her, despite the fact that _you_ were the one who brought it up in the first place.

_What is wrong with you?_

Dani gives you a glance that you can’t quite read, but it doesn’t matter. As she walks off to try and find the ice box, you find yourself staring at your cup of tea – at the tea itself, more than the cup – as though that would explain to you why you are acting the way that you are. It doesn’t help. You _know_ that it doesn’t help. But it doesn’t stop you from staring.

You close your eyes.

_“They are_ servants _, Vi._

_Just have them live here._

_Then you don’t have to pay them._

_It’s such a waste of money.”_

_Your sister._

_Again._

_Perdita._

_Her dark eyes are dark._

_Hair perfectly coifed,_

_although not as beautiful or thick as your own._

_Of the two of you,_

you _are the beautiful one._

_No one questions this._

_Not even her._

_“We are better than that, Perdy,”_

_you find yourself saying._

_“Servants are people just as much as you or I are._

_You know the world looks down on us simply for being women._

_It looks down on them, too, simply for being—”_

_“—peasants?”_

_Perdita raises one sculpted eyebrow._

_She tries too hard._

_You grit your teeth._

_There is no way of explaining this to her._

_You thought the same way she did, once._

_It was your father who taught you otherwise._

_Your father had protected the two of you,_

_had struggled to maintain your way of life_

_without marrying either of you off to_

_the first rich man who asked._

_When your father dies –_

_and your father_ will _die,_

_you know that he will,_

_sooner than you would like –_

_the two of you will be expected to marry._

_Men will swarm like vultures._

_You will need to marry first_

_to protect the family estate._

_You will need to marry someone shrewd_

_but who will defer to your judgments._

_But your sister?_

_Sometimes you think you will marry her to_

_the first rich man who asks,_

_the first rich man who she shows interest in._

_You have already grown so tired of her quips._

_It will be worse when your father is not here._

_It will be worse when you must deal with her alone._

_“We did not control the status of our birth._

_Neither do our servants._

_We pay them because we can afford to pay them,_

_and because they deserve to be paid._

_Are they not doing a day’s work?_

_We cannot force them to live here and_

_consider that payment enough.”_

_Your sister’s eyes narrow_

_as she stares at you._

_“We can do whatever we want._

_You squander our money on clothes and jewels._

_You waste it on peasants and servants._

_You refuse to—”_

“Viola? I brought the cream with me in case you wanted some…too….”

Dani returns with her cup of tea in one hand and the cream in the other, but her voice fades as she notices the other woman’s stance. The ghost is bent over, one hand on her forehead, eyes closed, as though she is in pain. She wasn’t sure Viola could _feel_ pain, but apparently she can. That’s new.

The woman startles as Dani says her name, and she takes a sudden, sharp intake of breath before looking up, wincing just before her eyes open. She turns and meets Dani’s eyes. “I don’t need any,” she says, but her voice is fainter than it normally is, as though she is suddenly exhausted – or _weak_. “Thank you for your consideration.”

Dani isn’t quite sure that she believes her. Obviously she uses the cream for something, otherwise she wouldn’t have it. She certainly refuses to believe that the ghost just kept cream on ice just in case she should come to visit her, just for _her_. That would be more effort than she would expect from a creature who might not be intending to kill her but is certainly taking up residence in her mind – and her body – more than she would like. (Which is to say that she doesn’t like it at all, and no matter what their relationship may or may not end up being, she isn’t sure that she will ever _like_ it.)

“Are you okay?” Dani can’t help but ask as she sits down on the log next to Viola. Okay, that’s a little too close, and she realizes what she’s doing almost as soon as she sits, instinctively scooting away a little bit just in case. She hates herself just a little bit for asking. Like, look, here is a ghost who doesn’t quite understand boundaries and attempted to kill her once (even if said ghost doesn’t remember doing that), and Dani sees her feeling weak and vulnerable and suddenly feels _bad_ for her.

 _Darn_ , that compassionate center of hers, always getting her into trouble!

“I’m fine.” Viola waves one hand dismissively. She presses her lips together as though steeling herself and then takes a deep drought of her tea. Then she glances down at her now half-empty cup and scowls, an expression which makes Dani flinch without thinking. “Beginning to regret throwing my tea into the fire.”

Dani’s eyes narrow. Her heart is already set to racing by Viola’s frustrated expression, and she tries to calm herself. The ghost isn’t upset with her. She’s not going to come after her. They are just having a nice little conversation. She’ll be okay. “Why would you keep it?”

“To reuse it.” Viola smiles – a snide thing, not happy or sad but something else altogether. “You really _don’t_ know how to make tea, do you?”

“ _I make tea just fine, thank you very much._ ” Dani huffs. “Just because I don’t make it like y’all make it—”

“ _Y’all._ ”

“—doesn’t mean I don’t make good tea.” Dani takes another deep breath and squints angrily at the other woman. “It’s just different from yours. And we don’t reuse packets. That’s gross. Can you even get any flavor out of that?”

Viola’s smile doesn’t fade, no matter _what_ Dani says. “Yes. Might want it to steep a little longer to get a strong flavor, but yes.” She sighs and leans back just enough to glance up at the sky. “But enough talking about tea. You were going to tell me why you’ve been feeling so anxious that it’s been bleeding through the gate.”

“I wasn’t going to tell you that.” Dani glances up, trying to see what Viola is searching for in the sky. There are a couple of clouds, but they don’t move across the surface of the sky the way clouds in the real world do. They’re frozen in place. Some of them seem cottony, but in a way that seems almost sketched on – as though the sky here is only a photorealistic drawing and not the sky at all.

Then again, even if the clouds _are_ real, how would they move if there is no wind to push them around?

Viola does not shrug. She does nothing that could be construed as dismissive. Instead, she asks, “Is it more relaxing for you to speak of tea than it is to speak of what is ailing you? If so, then we may continue that conversation.”

Dani purses her lips. “Are you really trying to help me _for me_ , or are you just trying to help because it means things will be better in here for you?” She hates the snappish way the words come out of her lips as soon as she says them, but it doesn’t mean that she doesn’t mean them. “There _is_ a difference, you know.” She crosses her arms, letting her teacup rest on the flattened ground between their shared log and the fire in front of them.

“Why can’t the answer be _both?_ ” Viola asks, her voice soft. “I can help you for your sake while also wanting to help you for my own. You might consider that selfish, but everyone must have an element of self-preservation to them. Even you have it. That is why you still keep me at arms’ length, despite my personally being nothing but kind to you.”

“ _You tried. to kill me._ ”

“Not in here, I haven’t.” Viola’s lips press together in a thin line. “I think the death would be much more permanent, much more painful in here, don’t you?”

The words don’t sound like a threat. Dani wants to believe that they aren’t. And yet, there is still a cold chill traveling down the thick of her spine. There isn’t a breeze, but there might as well have been a cold gust of air hitting her full in the face.

_If the ghost must become more of a human to me, then I must become more of a human to her as well._

“I was going to be married,” Dani starts, slow at first, not looking at Viola. It is easier to talk about this while staring into the fire. It reminds her so much of the bonfire they’d had at Bly so long ago. She should have spoken about Eddie then. It hadn’t been easy to go back and burn what remained of his glasses, and even though she had done it, even though she had come to a peace with the guilt-made ghost of him who had followed her around, it wasn’t the same – couldn’t _be_ the same – as speaking of him with Jamie, Hannah, and Owen the way they had spoken of their lost loved ones with her.

Maybe this could be a recreation of that – confessing her dead ghost to her living one.

She shudders to think of that.

Viola doesn’t say anything. In fact, her entire expression seems to soften as she waits for what Dani will say next. She takes another sip of her tea, but she doesn’t request for her to wait while she goes back for another packet. If anything, she seems determined to make what she still has last for however long this conversation will take.

Dani glances down into her tea, away from the fire. “I’m sure that’s surprising to you,” she says when Viola doesn’t say anything, “considering Jamie and everything.”

“No.” Viola’s voice is soft as she answers. “I knew many women like you who went through the same thing.” She doesn’t bring up what might have happened to them if they did otherwise; Dani didn’t know what century Viola was from, but she knew that it wouldn’t have been pretty. “So no,” she continues, tapping her forefinger against her teacup, “I am not surprised.”

Dani doesn’t really want to ask, but she can’t help but reach for something to pull her out of the explanation she has already started on. “Were you one of them?” she asks, looking up briefly and then back to her teacup as though ashamed for even asking.

Viola’s eyes narrow as she stares forward – not into the fire but past it, not really focusing on anything. “I don’t know,” she says, finally. “I don’t remember.” She chuckles lightly. “It seems so strange that should be one of those things I don’t remember, but it is.” She sighs. “I loved my husband, though,” she says, firm. “I’m certain of that. Whether or not I loved him when I married him, I did, eventually, love him. And he loved me.”

For a moment, Viola seems to freeze – almost the same as she had when Dani returned with the creamer – but she quickly shakes it off. “Your fiancé,” she says, by way of returning to the last conversation, “what was he like? Did you love him?”

Dani smiles. “I think if I could have fallen in love with a guy, I would have fallen in love with him. Eddie was….” She shakes her head, astonished that she had even mentioned him to the ghost by name, but wherever you go, there you are. “Eddie was always very gentle with me. I was at his house with his family more than I was at my own. My mom….” She shakes her head again. “Not important.” She rubs the back of her neck, fingers pressing to that spot even though there is absolutely no reason to do so now. It’s a habit, an idle one, brought on by her discomfort. “I hate saying it this way but Eddie was _not like other guys_. He was my best friend, and I wanted to make him happy.” She sighs. “But I eventually realized that if I was lying to him, then that….” She hisses through her front teeth. “That wasn’t making him happy. If I was in love with someone and I believed that they loved me and then found out that they were only pretending to love me to make me happy…. I wouldn’t…. If I really loved them, that would be…that would be worse.” She turns to Viola, pressing her lips together. “Does that make sense? It wasn’t that I was putting my happiness above Eddie’s. It _wasn’t_. It was understanding—”

“—that if he loved you as much as he said he did, then he would be miserable if _you_ were miserable,” Viola completes when Dani’s voice fades away. “That was very wise of you.”

Dani shakes her head. “It was selfish. I don’t think I would have brought it up at all if Eddie hadn’t realized that all of the wedding planning was making me depressed. I just kept wanting to make things smaller and smaller until he realized that I didn’t want to have it at all. And then I _had_ to tell him.” She sighs, and her brows furrow. “He didn’t take it well. We fought. But the thing about Eddie was that no matter how much we fought, we would have always made peace about it later. He was my _best friend_ , and I loved him as much as I could love anybody, other than Jamie. Other than—”

“I know.”

Dani nods again, still staring into the fire, but she is nodding more to herself now than she is to whatever Viola has said. “He got out of the car because he needed room to breathe. He needed to walk it off. He needed to think over it. _It would have been fine_ , but—” She stops and swallows, staring into the fire. “A truck was coming. One of those big ones, you know? And we were parked on the street and there wasn’t any warning and it....”

She can’t say it. She doesn’t want to say it. It is _hard_ to say it, and she doesn’t want to say it, but she has to say it because it’s just words and words can never be as bad as being there and living through it was _and she has to say it she has said it before she can say it now just say it—_

“The truck ran him over, and he died.”

Dani takes a deep breath. She waits. No matter how many times she says it, it’s still _hard_ , and the worst of it is that she’s never really explained it to anyone else the way she’s explaining it to the ghost sitting on the log next to her. The only other person who got the full story was Jamie, and even then, she’d kept some things out.

Pretending to be in love with Eddie had been like what pretending to be in love with Owen would be like. They were cut from the same cloth. But it could never compare to being in love with Jamie. The feelings were nothing alike.

“After he died, I used to see him.” Dani shakes her head again and glances down into her teacup. “I don’t think he was really a ghost like you are. Eddie moved on to wherever it was he was supposed to go, but the guilt of everything…. It _haunted_ me. And so I would see him. Mostly in mirrors or reflections, but sometimes….” She remembers Bly. It is impossible _not_ to remember Bly. “Those last few days, it was like he was there, like he could feel me falling for Jamie, like he was protectively trying to…to keep me for himself. Even though it wasn’t really him.”

“I have not seen him here,” Viola says, voice soft. “I believe if you were still seeing his ghost, he would linger here somewhere as well.” She takes a sip of her tea as her hair falls back into her face, hiding her expression from Dani. “Perhaps you only have room enough for one of us at a time.”

Dani laughs – shorter than normal, more a chuckle than a laugh. “No, he and I parted ways before I met you. He started showing up any time I tried to get close to Jamie, and I got tired of it.” She looks up and over towards Viola. “I was trying to make space for Jamie, but if you’re right, then _I guess_ I made room for you.” She shrugs and glances back down into her tea. “ _Anyway_ , the reason I’ve been so anxious recently is that we’re getting close to the anniversary of his death.” She leans back and forces herself to look up at the sky. It’s still that same almost painted on cloud frozen in the same position it was in before. Still, looking up at the sky? It helps. She sighs. “I always get anxious when I get close to his death. I know he won’t come back, but it’s like…. It’s almost like reliving everything again. It’s hard. It’s _terrifying_.”

“Well, if he ever _should_ show up again,” Viola begins as the fire crackles and pops in front of them, “come find me.” She meets Dani’s eyes, her voice firm as steel. “I know how to deal with ghosts.”

A thrill of terror creeps down Dani’s spine. It’s similar to the feeling she gets whenever she considers that this ghost could destroy her, closer to when she’d been certain that she would (a certainty that is not quite so certain right now). She does not know what Viola would do to another ghost, but she can imagine it. Her lips press together, and she avoids Viola’s eyes. “If Eddie were here, I would prefer him to you,” she admits, despite knowing that Eddie’s ghost had been far more possessive and antagonistic than Viola is. Eddie might have been more pervasive, but he was less _in_ vasive. She could learn to deal with Eddie, if it were truly him and not just a guilt-ridden being that her mind created just to hurt her.

Yet Viola does not flinch at her words. “Of course, you would,” she says, and when Dani looks up once more, Viola’s gaze – intense as could be – has left her and returned to the flickering flame. “If it were him, you would be with your best friend instead of someone who tried to kill you once.”

“I thought you said that you didn’t remember that.”

“I _don’t_ ,” Viola replies, and it is almost as though she is snapping at her, although her tone is still just as soft and warm as it has been. “But I don’t think the two of us have had a conversation where you haven’t brought it up. I know it by how often you fixate on it, how often you use it as a weapon against me.”

“I—”

Viola shakes her head and waves a hand dismissively between them. “No matter who or what I am, you will always see me as your beast in the jungle, waiting to devour you, and I suppose that it is right for you to do so, regardless of my intent. I have come to live with that and accept it.” She continues to stare into the fire and lets out a sigh. “First meetings have strong implications for the rest of a relationship. In our first meeting, I tried to kill you. I cannot rewrite that.”

Dani stares at the ghost, waiting for her to continue, but Viola falls silent. Her lips press together, teeth gritting against each other. She wants to ask, but does not. She isn’t sure she could take the answer.

And yet, after a few moments of only the fire flickering between them, Viola continues. “You have such strong faith in my intent to kill you, and I have such strong hope in your intent to love me. Neither is truly there. It is the same.” Her voice is so soft that Dani barely hears it, even though they are sitting just next to each other. Viola takes a deep breath and sighs again. “The next time you are anxious,” she says, changing the subject as abruptly as she can, “come back, and I will make you another cup of tea. You don’t have to talk about it if you do not wish to do so. In fact, you do not have to say anything at all. But the world is far quieter in here than it is out there.” Viola glances up again, past the sketched on cloud that remains, unmoving, in the sky. “And sometimes the quiet helps more than anything else can.”

Dani nods in agreement. “I can do that,” she says, voice soft, although she doubts that she will. She picks her cup of tea up from the ground where she has placed it and turns back to the ghost. “Is this you kicking me out again?”

“No,” Viola says, and she takes a sip of her tea, pinkie out in a way that makes Dani almost laugh. “You may stay as long as you want. As long as you need.” She stands, and her cup hangs, empty, from her fingertips. “I’m going to get more. Would you like any?”

And for the briefest of moments, Dani considers it, staring at the metal teapot and her own, not quite finished cup. She takes a deep breath, and she feels like she’s jumping off a cliff – _again_. “Why don’t you bring the basket out?” she asks, briefly meeting Viola’s eyes. “Then you won’t have to go back for more.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long between these past two chapters, and apologies ahead of time because there will probably be a bit of a wait between this one and the next one, too.
> 
> I posted this update on my tumblr (@aparticularbandit), but I wanted to give a general one here, too. It's Christmas season, and I host (and am part of) a Secret Santa for one of the other fandoms I'm in (Jane the Virgin, I write a bunch of Roisa stuff, feel free to check it out if you want, no worries if you don't). So my writing time is going to be primarily going to be focused on my present for that instead of on this.
> 
> Basically, this means there might not be another update until after Christmas, and it may be longer than that. I do still have a couple of chapters roughed out (like I've said before, I like to stay ahead with this one), so depending on how quickly I get that next chapter done, there might be another chapter. I'm not sure.
> 
> Now - I was doing roughly three chapters a week here for a bit - Monday, Wednesday, Friday /roughly/ - as well as a chapter a week for my other fandom (for Mondays), a book that I already had done, so it's not more writing and etc. I /think/ in the new year, I plan on having this fic be my main project for Monday updates, so it would be updated weekly. But I haven't decided yet.
> 
> BUT that's probably a longer note than y'all are wanting, especially when you want to get into the fic proper, so! If you want more updates, please go check out my tumblr - aparticularbandit.tumblr.com - because I tend to give more updates there!

The day of Eddie’s anniversary comes the way it always does – not like a sudden one punch knock out eclipsing Dani’s mind and forcing her to stay curled up in bed with Jamie next to her, seeking warmth and comfort and only occasionally getting up for certain human necessities (food, bathroom – that’s about it, and even then, if it _were_ like that, Jamie would bring her food so that she wouldn’t have to get up at all) – but like that constant storm cloud you might see hovering over the horizon, told that it’ll sweep past you, but seeing it loom closer and closer, seeing the lightning flickering as the clouds grow darker and darker – swollen with rain and gloom and doom – and knowing, _knowing_ that despite everything you’ve been told it will come straight for you anyway, knowing that if you are outside, you will be struck with lightning – even though it’s not even that likely of a chance in the first place, but just that absolute certainty pooling in the center of your chest as the wind grows harsher and harsher, so harsh that the thinnest branches on the trees break off and fly at your face, and the wind damage is enough, you don’t even need the storm, but it’s coming – it’s coming – _it’s coming—_

Dani can feel the storm looming on the horizon, and she stands in front of the window, and she stares out onto the clouds, breathing heavy, and doesn’t force herself to relax. The storm is here. The feelings are here. She closes her eyes and breathes. Let the storm come. Let the emotions come. Let them roll over and through you. Breathe and accept that they are here.

Easier said than done.

The anniversary should just be a pinnacle of grief, one that slowly fades over the years. Dani loved him – a part of her still does, if she’s honest with herself – and while she didn’t love him the way he loved her, Eddie was still her best friend. The best friend she’d had growing up. If he hadn’t died, she _hopes_ they would have kept in contact. Even if they would have been exes – even if she had broken off their engagement – she likes to think they would have still been friends. Eventually. Eddie would have understood that it was better for him to marry someone else, for him to marry someone who was as excited to be with him as he was to be with them. That maybe having his eyes set on her that entire time blinded him to the very realities she had come to know and experience and come to realize were _one hundred percent real_ the older she’d gotten.

1987 and mid-twenties and being born in the sixties during _free love_ and realizing that _hey, maybe this_ and trying to brush that aside because you knew the sort of stigma that came with it and then there was _the disease, right as you were starting college, and watching the government prove over and over again that you were less than_ and now it isn’t just a social stigma – everyone you know personally will likely want nothing to do with you, but maybe they’ll change – now it’s a government sanctioned _cultural_ stigma where the people you love will just think that you are a carrier of a disease—

It had taken _so long_ to accept it. She hadn’t wanted to accept it. She hadn’t wanted to believe it. But as much as she fought against it, the feelings were still there.

Maybe, if she hadn’t met Jamie, Dani wouldn’t have pursued anything at all. That would have been easier. In fact, if Eddie hadn’t died, if she hadn’t felt like she needed to get out, to get _gone_ , to get **away** from it all, she might’ve been an old maid. A crazy cat lady – except that she’s allergic to cats (not horribly allergic, just a sneeze here or there, but if she lived with one, it would be worse, and if she was a crazy cat lady? _No_ , thank you).

It is hard to consider the _what if_ s of Eddie not dying. Most days, Dani doesn’t think about it. Most days, they don’t cross her mind. But it is impossible not to start thinking on it _today_ , when half of her aches for the best friend she will never get to speak to again and the other half is afraid that he’ll suddenly pop into view just to remind her that their current situation is all her fault.

Dani wonders, briefly, if the storm she imagines looms within her as well, if Viola, on waking (if she ever does sleep anymore) finds it to be pouring down rain.

The thought of the creature in the dark, who has so recently been slowly  
replaced with the image of Viola as she truly is, returns to that faceless being  
she had seen at Bly, soaking wet, the white nightgown stuck sopping to its  
skin, the hair a seaweed shine. She remembers the creature’s slimy wet  
fingers clasped so tight on her throat as it dragged her, remembered being  
unable to find a grip on it the same way it had on her, scraping at its skin so  
wet that she can’t cling on. She imagines, briefly, Viola standing at the one  
large window in that room of hers, seeing the rain patter down its panes,  
and pressing her hand flat against it, her face slowly fading away as she  
looms large inside.

The thought sends a shiver down her spine. She has enough to worry about with _one_ ghost today without having to think about the other. Dani hopes that it _isn’t_ raining in her mind, although she isn’t sure how completely she can control that. Perhaps simply hoping it will be enough. Of course, hoping that Viola won’t interfere is another attempt at something she knows she can’t control, so really, perhaps hoping that the weather in her head will actually listen to her might be far beyond her abilities, too.

She doesn’t know. She hasn’t tried before. And she doesn’t plan on going in to check today’s rate of success, either.

* * *

Dani sits up in bed and draws her knees against her chest. It’s early – too early. Jamie’s still curled up on her side, auburn curls scattered in her face, one hand outstretched under her pillow in a position that will just leave it feeling numb eventually. It’s an easy thing, her exhaustion, and its steady impact leads to full, necessary rest. Dani’s exhaustion is just as real but of a different sort; it makes it harder for her to rest, harder for her to be able to sink into comforting dreams. No, other than that which isn’t really a dream – the tucking away that finds her in Viola’s room in the back of her mind – all of her recent dreams have been nightmares. Much as she hates to admit it, the tucking away has been much more relaxing than her attempts at rest are. It doesn’t leave her feeling restless.

A quick glance over to her girlfriend again – Jamie snorts the slightest bit, the barest hint of a snore. It’s spring, and as much as Jamie might be almost _impenetrable_ where allergies in her home country are concerned, it takes a bit of getting used to the new environment before she’ll be that way here. Her nose has been stopped up more often than not of late, and the box of Kleenex they have in their bathroom is so close to empty that they’ll be needing to buy another box or two soon. Perhaps that is something she’ll do—

Not today. There’s no fooling herself. Dani knows well enough that she won’t be able to be that productive today. Driving, walking along the sidewalk with the cars that like to zoom past and splash the inky, oily melting snow puddles into her face would be an absolute horror today. She knows this. She knows better than to try. Some days, you have to put your mental health first. So no, she won’t be getting out for more Kleenex today, but tomorrow, perhaps. Or the next day. She’ll feel better on those days. Not today.

Dani pushes herself out of their bed, careful not to rouse Jamie as she does so. It’s just the same as it was that first time at Bly – unable to truly rest, she feels the need to wander and pads on bare feet down their hardwood hallway to the kitchen. She fills their kettle with water and puts it on the stove, flicking it on and letting it warm while she picks out a packet of tea.

 _One_ packet. She remembers this vaguely from her time spent with Viola – the appropriate way to make a cup of tea is _one_ packet in _one_ cup. The problem is that without Viola with her, she isn’t sure exactly how long she will need to leave the packet in the boiling hot water.

Well. What better time than to play around with that than now?

Dani sets the singular packet into the bottom of her cup, lets the little string hang out over the side, and then waits. She moves the kettle from the stove just as it begins to whistle – it probably won’t wake Jamie. She _hopes_ it doesn’t wake Jamie. She honestly hadn’t been thinking about that when she put the kettle on the stove. Does that make her a bad girlfriend? (Probably not as much as not being able to make a good cup of tea for a British native is. If Jamie can forgive her the transgress of the latter, than she will probably forgive her the former as well. Probably. She isn’t particularly worried about it.)

A part of her thinks she really _should_ put multiple packets in the teapot and just let them sit. That would make it _faster_ , wouldn’t it? Instead of having to reheat the water and get another packet? And then it would still taste good even when it had grown cold, and if it didn’t, she could just reheat the flavored tea the same as she reheated the water. This takes so much more work than making a pitcher of tea the way she normally does. It still doesn’t make any sense to her.

Still.

Dani pours the boiling water over her packet and leans up against their back counter, leaving the teapot on a pot burner, where the water will just grow _cold_ while it waits on her to make a second cup. She leaves her packet in for a couple of minutes – not near as long as she left it while she was talking with Viola, at least, not as long as she thinks, but time doesn’t really seem to matter much there; she can spend what feels like hours talking with Viola and come back to the world after what must be only a few minutes at most. It isn’t that consistent – and then pulls the packet out by the little string she’d left hanging over the edge of her cup. She takes a sip.

Too watery. Not enough flavor. _Yech._

She puts the packet back in and leaves it while she searches for their sugar pot and some milk. This one is a wintery, peppermint sort of tea, which is a more seasonal anxiety relaxer than the chamomile Jamie would normally prescribe, but it needs a bit of sugar to make it really candy cane flavored and a little bit of milk to cut the bitterness. Not that it’s too terribly bitter at the moment, but by the time it loses the water flavor, Dani is _certain_ it’ll be bitter. There’s always a bit of bitterness to her tea, something that is sharp at the back of her throat. Of course, this hadn’t been the case when she’d been with Viola, but that had been different. Dani assures herself of this.

By the time she gets back to her cup, Dani is certain that it has been long enough. She takes her packet out, sips at her tea – yep, that’s _plenty_ strong – and considers throwing the packet out before remembering, again, what Viola said – that she could just reuse the same packet later instead of getting a new one. It’s a weird thought, but she’ll give it a short. Then she drops three cubes of sugar in – that’s how many she had needed before for her singular cup – pours in a little bit of milk, and then lifts her cup and starts toward the living room only to be stopped by a figure looming just out of the hallway.

Dani _jumps_ without thinking about it. A bit of the tea in her cup sloshes over the side, but she keeps her grip on the cup’s handle so that it doesn’t drop to the floor and shatter. She takes a deep breath. “Jamie?”

“Yeah, Poppins?” Jamie rubs a hand across her eyes and yawns as she stumbles into the living room.

“What’re you doing up?”

Jamie yawns again. “I could ask you the same thing.” One brow raises as she notes the cup in Dani’s hand. “You been trying to make tea again?”

Dani nods. “I just made a cup. Trying out this new way of making tea, I guess.” She presses her lips together. “Want me to make you one?”

“No.” The word is out of Jamie’s lips quickly and without a second of hesitation. “But I’ll make my own if you want someone to sit up with you.”

Dani bites her lower lip. “You don’t have to stay up with me. I was hoping this cup would help me relax.” She sighs. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“It’s alright, Poppins. It’s one of those days for you. I want to be able to help when I can. You know that.” Jamie passes her and pats her shoulder once. “Let me get a cup, and I’ll join you, right?”

“Sure.”

Dani curls up 0n one side of the sofa as she waits for Jamie. The scent of her tea is soothing in and of itself, and when she takes another sip, she smiles. Alright. So she _can_ make a good individual cup of tea. Maybe she can convince Jamie to try some of this in the future. She’s sure that it’ll be better than the full pot attempts. And if she gets good at individual cups, then making a full pot should just be math from there. Figure out however much water is in a cup and then it’s just ratios on how many packets should be in the pot and how much sugar and how much milk comparative—

Dani was never the greatest at _that_ kind of math, which is probably why she’s not a great baker, but she’s certain that if she runs her theory by Owen, then he’ll tell her that it’s sound enough. On second thought, she should just ask Owen how to make tea. But then, he’s a chef. He probably has some complicated way of making it. That would be worse.

Jamie curls up on the other side of the couch with her cup of tea in one hand, playing with the string of her tea packet with the other. "So,” she starts, voice soft, “this about Eddie?”

 _Of course_ , Dani wants to say. _Of course, it’s about Eddie. What else would it be about?_ But she doesn’t say any of that. It would sound snappish, and she is far too tired to be snappish. Besides, what Jamie’s asked is no reason to be frustrated. She presses her lips together and takes a sip of tea. “I’m sorry,” she says instead of answering Jamie’s question. “I’m trying not to let it upset me, but—”

“It’s alright, Dani. I don’t mind. I get it.” Jamie reaches over and touches her hand. “You’ve got a lot on your plate, and killing your ex-boyfriend—”

“ _Hey._ ”

Jamie smiles – a small, spry little thing – and winks at her. “You’re around a murdering ghost quite enough, you are. I think you can cut yourself a little bit of slack. You haven’t done anything like what she’s done.”

“She can’t remember that,” Dani replies with a shrug. She doesn’t even think about it as she says it, but as soon as she realizes what she’s said, her eyes widen. “At least,” she continues, eyes still wide, “that’s what she says. I don’t know if I believe her or not. I mean, I can’t _not_ remember what happened with Eddie, so it’s weird that she can’t remember all the people she’s killed. She can’t even remember almost killing me, and—” Dani presses her lips together and shakes her head. “It’s not important if she remembers it or not. A part of her still intended to do it. That’s what’s important.” She takes another sip of her cup. “We weren’t talking about Viola.”

“Think it’s easier for you to talk about her than it is for you to talk about him.”

Dani blanches. She doesn’t like to think about that, but it’s true. Viola – though much more intrusive than Eddie was – is a lot more…easy to deal with than Eddie. She can actually hold a conversation with Viola. She never really could with Eddie’s ghost. Probably because Eddie had never been there at all, probably because it was her own guilt looming over everything and reminding her of—

Dani shakes her head. “I had a nice talk with her earlier this week.”

“You did?”

“She seems…nice.” Dani doesn’t like the word. It feels weird to be using the word _nice_ with Viola. “Don’t think I’d much like her if I met her in person. Don’t think she’d much like me either. But she’s easy to talk to. I can see why you like your conversations.”

Jamie lets out a groan. “I _don’t_ always like our conversations. She prattles on about Shakespeare and tries to explain him to me, and it feels a little bit like being in school again, and I was _never_ much good at school.” She pushes a hand through her hair, rumbling her curls the slightest bit. “Wish she would find something else to read other than him. No offense,” she continues, looking over at Shakespeare, “but he really is _quite_ boring.”

“Don’t know why you don’t like him,” Dani says, pursing her lips. “He’s a proper British bloke. Makes a lot of crude jokes. Seems like he’d be right up your alley.”

“Been around far too many British blokes making dick jokes. Kind of tired of them.” Jamie leans back against the arm of the couch and stretches her feet out towards Dani. “Especially tired of the ones who think they’re better than everyone else doing it.”

Dani scoots further back against her arm of the couch. “ _Ew, feet!_ ” She grimaces and meets Jamie’s eyes. “If you’re cold, we’ve got blankets for that!”

“Right, _right._ ” Jamie pulls one of the blankets off the back of the couch. It’s a bright orange cross-stitched thing – thick and warm – and she bundles it up around herself before throwing the other end over her feet, just within Dani’s reach. “You want in, Poppins?”

Dani shivers once, but it’s not from the cold. “No. I’m okay.” She takes a deep breath and another sip of her tea. Then she gives Jamie a look. “Shakespeare’s not as posh as you think he is, you know. He was just a normal person. Wasn’t a lord. Wasn’t a lady. Wasn’t royal at all. Just a normal person writing stories for normal people. Retelling some of them. Making up some words.” She continues to stare at her girlfriend. “He only _sounds_ posh because language changed. Otherwise, he’d be talking just like you and me.”

Jamie shrugs. “Don’t matter. Still just a guy telling a bunch of dick jokes. Never been much of one for dick jokes, considering.”

“You’re right. Puns are better.”

“ _Batter_ ,” Jamie corrects, “as Owen would say.”

Dani groans, and the groan turns into a big yawn. “Sorry,” she says through the yawn, covering her mouth with one hand. “I’m just so _tired_.”

“So sleep.”

“I keep having nightmares.” Dani rubs a hand across one eye, wiping away the tears that sprouted from yawning so much. “It’s better to stay awake, I think. I’ll get better rest tomorrow. After.” She yawns again. “ _Actually_ , you’ll think this sounds weird, but wherever it is Viola puts me is actually the _most_ relaxing. It’s so _quiet_ there. Most of the time, it’s unsettling, but right now—” Dani doesn’t know how to explain it – its silence that often seems almost _too_ silent is nothing but _relaxing_ when her mind is running so loud that anything else just feels overwhelming. She sighs. “I hate it there, but it’s quiet.”

Jamie gives a little nod. “Thought you didn’t like the quiet. Thought you liked being distracted.”

“I do,” Dani says, running a finger along the lip of her teacup, “but sometimes everything is so loud and so overwhelming that the quiet stillness helps more than a distraction does.” She doesn’t look up at Jamie. “It’s like when you and I need to have a little time to ourselves. With this….” Her eyes narrow, and she struggles to figure out how to say it. “I think sometimes even the distraction just adds to the….” She shakes her head and forces herself to say it. “To the noise.”

“Sounds to me,” Jamie says, slowly moving closer to Dani, “that you’re a normal human being.” Her head tilts to the side ever so slightly. “Normal for an _American_ , of course. But normal enough.”

Dani looks up and meets her eyes. “What do you mean?”

Jamie shrugs. “Sometimes you need one thing, and sometimes you need another thing.” She reaches over and taps Dani’s hand. “Most plants need water _and_ sunlight. But it’s a careful balance. Too much water and not enough sunlight can spell disaster. The opposite is true. Humans are the same. A little bit more complicated, but the same.” She leans forward and holds Dani’s gaze. “So you’re saying last year you needed a lot of sunlight and this year you’ve got a bit too much. Poppins, that’s nothing to be upset about. You just gotta let me know what you need.”

Dani leans forward and catches Jamie’s lips with her own. It’s soft, gentle – not needing as she so often is – and when she leans back, she feels warm all over in a way that Eddie had never been able to make her feel, no matter how hard he had tried. She can’t help but smile. “Thank you for understanding.”

Jamie’s eyes light up. “’Course. Wouldn’t be good at what I do if I didn’t.”

One of Dani’s brows raises in a questioning gesture. “And what, exactly, is it that you do?”

“Love you, of course,” Jamie says with a wink. “Is all I’m good for, really.”

Dani reaches over and gives her a little shove. She doesn’t have to say that Jamie’s good for a lot more than that, even though the words jump unbidden to her lips. That’s not the point of what she’s saying. Then she lets one hand take Jamie’s and give it a gentle squeeze. “Go on back to bed,” she says, pressing her lips together with a little nod. “You need your rest. I’ll get there if I can.” She gives her a little look, lips pursed. “I may just stay in here. You know what it’s like – when exhaustion hits, better give in then.”

“Got it.” Jamie raises her brows. She places her teacup onto one of their side tables and leans forward to kiss Dani again – another small, soft thing. “You want me to take these?” she asks, gesturing to the cups.

Dani shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it. Hopefully I won’t wake you if I make more.”

“And if you do,” Jamie says, reaching over and touching her hand lightly, “I’ll stay right where I am. Let you have your silence while you can.” She glances up, outside the window. “The world gets awful loud when people wake up. It’s like we don’t know how to be quiet.”

Dani shrugs. “ _People._ Who’d a thunk it?” She grins and watches as Jamie returns to their bedroom before letting out a deeply held sigh. Then she takes another sip of her tea, letting it warm her from the inside out, and pulls the blanket even closer around her. It isn’t too cool outside anymore. Spring is coming. No, it isn’t _coming_. It’s _here_.

What a warm, warm thought.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait between last chapter and this one! Like I said, I was trying to get a Secret Santa present ready, so my writing was pretty much focused on that last month. I'm semi-pinch hitting for another one, too, BUT currently (outside of that) this is my primary focus in terms of fic writing!
> 
> I'm planning on updating this on Mondays for the foreseeable future (although this is subject to change), so that's something to look forward to!
> 
> And, as always, I hope this chapter was well worth the wait!

Everything seems calmer after your conversation with your host. You might not have said much, but that is the entire point of being a good listener – not to speak, but to listen, impartial. She hadn’t stayed much longer after explaining what was going on, but the anxiety and paranoia that seeped into your side of the gate has thinned and faded away until there is nothing left of it. Every now and again, if you focus, you can find something of it left, but it takes a lot of effort – more than you want to put forth just to feel your host’s _anxiety_.

No, your time now is spent trying to remember more about your sister – _Perdy, Perdita_ – who seemed like a horrible human being and about your husband, whose name you still can’t remember but who you know, from the memories you’ve recalled, very firmly _did_ exist. You want more than almost anything to find a way to make more memories appear, but you cannot figure out what has been triggering them. The only constant is that they often happen as a result of – or, more often, _during_ – conversations with your host or her girlfriend.

This makes staying in your room hard.

And yet, you do not want to push things with Dani. Not when they are slowly smoothing out. She doesn’t seem to _hate_ you anymore. As much as you might interfere with her life, you aren’t trying to be _possessive_ the way the ghost of her dead fiancé was. You don’t want to be possessive. You don’t want to possess your host, as ironic as that might sound.

You simply want to be with someone else. You want to live.

You think that these desires are not so far removed from what most people in the world want, to some extent or another. That is, after all, what most of those plays and books your host has been reading are about – living and loving and loneliness. You think, in the end, that will be the only thing that will quell the rage.

The rage still bubbles within you. It is buried deep in your chest where you do not touch it. You do not want it to boil over and consume you the way that it once did – unending, although it could still end, if you could figure out what caused it and address that cause. Some part of you – whatever part it is that still remembers and still calls you into remembering – has been grievously hurt by someone or something.

You expect that it has to do with that sister of yours. She seems a likely culprit. As much as the you in your memories loves her, you – as you are now – can’t help but feel frustrated with her. She speaks as though she has never had to consider another person outside of herself – not even your father, not even you – while you seem to have been raised to consider all of the above. You were, therefore, likely the oldest and raised to take over after your father’s passing in whatever way you could, considering the curse of your gender.

And yet you do not think you ever thought yourself lesser than a man. No, you are quite certain that you thought yourself better than them and refused to bow to their wishes or requests.

You—

“Viola?”

Your name comes drifting through the air as though someone has called for you. There is no reason that anyone should have called for you. The only two people up there who know your name seem to enjoy each other’s company far more than they enjoy yours, and neither of them would particularly ask you anything of consequence. If Jamie asked you a question pointblank when you hadn’t tucked your host away, then your host would be upset, and no one would like that. And if your host had a question for you, it would be far easier for her to close her eyes and join you in this mindscape instead of calling you as is happening now.

_And yet—_

“Viola.  
Will you come up here please?”

That voice sounds like your host. Your eyes narrow. What could she want that would require calling for you to cross the gate instead of her coming to you? She does not _like_ you crossing the gate. In fact, you are quite certain that it literally _pains_ her when you do so (alright, you are not so certain that this is the case. If you truly thought you were hurting her by going up, then you wouldn’t do it in the first place. And yet, you still do).

You take a deep breath, close your eyes, and move – not across the path, not over the wall, not _walking_ or _running_ , but entering into that space that you have made, just the two of you, where you can still see through her eyes and talk with her, much the same as if you made your way down the path, but…different.

This keeps your areas more separate. That side of the gate is hers; this side of the gate is yours. You are not sure that this is necessarily a better or more useful way of being, but it…helps. _Her_ , you think, more than it helps you. Other than the whole _not having to climb over the wall_ thing, which is always nice.

Still.

There has got to be a better way to do this.

* * *

Dani feels Viola’s approach – that familiar presence starting at the base of her skull, traveling up and around the center of her head where she has intentionally never parted her hair since she was young (it makes her face seem far longer than she likes), and stopping just at the bridge of her nose. She resists the urge to pinch the spot, to press her fingers to the back of her neck as soon as she feels the ghost answering her call, and instead forces her eyes to remain open. “Can you see?”

It is the first time she has actually asked the question. Dani has always assumed that the creature could see through her eyes when it rests between them and has acted as though this were true. This is, after all, exactly how she had spoken to her about the books she was reading before – about _Romeo and Juliet_ , about the other Shakespearean plays she had been given. But she’s never actually asked the question. It just seems… _intuitive_.

**Yes, I can see. Vaguely.**

Dani can almost feel the ghost’s presence just behind her eyes, as though she is watching through them and trying to make sense of things. She takes a deep breath. “Is there a way you can see _more_ than vaguely?” she asks, speaking in a hush under her breath. “Without, you know.” She swallows, tapping her fingers on one arm. “Without taking over.”

 **Yes** , Viola answers, **but you do not like it when I do that.**

Dani groans under her breath and kneads her forehead. “Yeah, but I _totally_ called you up here this time, so it doesn’t bother me.” That’s a lie. It _does_ bother her. But she’ll get over it. It won’t be for very long, anyway.

**What are you so desperate for me to see?**

Dani gestures to the rows and rows of bookshelves in front of her. “ _This_ ,” she whispers, glancing across the books, “is a library. You can look through all of the books and borrow them. We’ll have to return them back eventually, but I thought….” She presses her lips together, carefully considering her words. “I thought it might be nice for you to pick out some of your own books instead of just reading whatever I have lying around.”

There is silence from the ghost. Well. That is a surprise. Dani isn’t sure how to respond to _silence_. She’s never really gotten Viola to shut up before. She should remember this. (Then again, she doubts that it will work a second time.) She takes a deep breath. “Viola? Is something wrong?”

**How do I know what to pick?**

The ghost is far more quiet than she usually is. It’s _weird._ Dani shrugs. “I don’t know. You just find something that sounds good and pick it up and look at it and see if it’s something you’re interested in.” She starts forward, mostly because it’s awkward just standing somewhere in a library without being near one of the bookshelves or sitting in one of the chairs they have at tables that can be used for desks or just to sit and read. “Sometimes I find an author I really like and just read through their books, and sometimes—”

**_How do I pick it up?_ **

_Oh._

Dani hadn’t really thought that far ahead. She’d just thought – you know – it would probably be nice to show Viola a library and let her pick out her own books to read. She hadn’t really thought through all of the logistics of it. “Well,” she says, continuing towards one of the bookshelves, “you could tell me which title looks good to you, and I could pick it up and hold it so that you can see it, and then you can tell me when you’re done looking, and I can put it back. That’s not too hard.”

The ghost sighs. **That is not the _easiest_ way to do this.**

Dani knows that. She knows what the easiest way would be. She just doesn’t _like_ it. She tugs her lower lip between her teeth.

Before she can say anything, Viola continues, **I was not suggesting we take the easier route.**

“I know, I know.” Dani grits her teeth together. No one at the library will judge her for talking to herself. She knows that. It’s not like she hasn’t seen other people talking to themselves. Sometimes that is the only way to remember where a book is supposed to be after she’s looked it up – just repeating it to herself over and over until she gets there. So she doesn’t judge – and likely neither will anyone else. “Fine,” she says finally. “ _Fine._ ” She crosses her arms and holds them tight to herself. “Just put me back when you’re done. I don’t like the little—”

There is a moment.  
It strikes you as different from the other moments.  
The giving control and the taking control – there is always a push and a pull.  
It’s tenuous at best.  
Sometimes it feels like the strain could break and send you flying.  
Both.  
It could send _us_ flying.

(But not you.  
You see this, don’t you?  
Of course, you do.)

This moment is different than other moments.  
It is different from other times when you--  
When _they_ —  
When **we** —  
have managed to switch.  
There is no acceptance there.  
No open giving.  
There is only what is stolen.  
What is taken.  
There is nothing taken here that is not first given.

_The key, rusted into the gate’s lock, starts to turn  
and then comes to an abrupt stop._

Viola flexes her fingers.

_Oh, this is weird._

Dani finds herself _not_ in that room where she has always found herself before, and whatever sensation being tucked away has had for those before her still does not seem to apply to her. Where the others apparently were forced back into memories (she remembers from what Miles and Flora said, but perhaps that was predicated on their agreement with Peter and Rebecca, perhaps that was because Viola herself was stuck reliving her singular memory over and over – that _constant_ walking of the grounds), Dani has never had that unique circumstance. Instead, she has often been forced into the room where Viola primarily lives. But now—

Now—

Dani isn’t quite sure where she has found herself. Perhaps this is the end of the path that leads from the jungle in the woods. Maybe if she turned around and went in the other direction, she would find herself back on the path, back in the jungle, where there is a breeze and birds and insects, and if she went far enough, she would find that gate with its rusted lock.

But here, there is almost nothing but _darkness_ and great open portals through which she can see what is going on in the external world. She can hear, too, but things feel almost – _almost_ – muffled. Maybe it is only that there is not much to hear in a library. Of course. That _would_ make sense.

Is this where Viola goes when she rests between her eyes?

Dani takes a deep breath and scowls as she looks around. She can’t imagine how the ghost could put up with coming up here so often. It’s not something _she_ would do. It’s just so… _uncomfortable_.

And yet, if this was her only way to the outside world, then maybe….

Maybe….

“Don’t just stand there playing around! If you’re going to go look at books, go look at books!”

You flinch at Dani’s voice reverberating in your head.

“Are you able to see?” you ask, whispering the same way that she was. This building is almost as silent as your side of the jungle, although every now and again you can hear the gentle whir of something mechanical – heater, perhaps – or the hushed conversations of other people at one of the desks.

 **Yes** , her voice comes back almost immediately, and you know from the annoyed tone in her voice that her arms are crossed. **And hurry. I don’t like this…wherever this is. That room is a lot better. Especially since you’ve shown me where to get tea. _I could be drinking tea right now._** She groans with exasperation. **How do I get back there?**

“Just follow the path. It’ll take you where you need to go.” You start forward to the first of the bookshelves and run your fingers along the bindings of the books. “I have never seen so many books in one place before,” you whisper, letting your eyes scan the sides for their titles. “How many am I allowed to take?”

 **A few?** Dani says. **Ten maybe. No more than ten. They’ll look at me funny.** She sighs. **And they don’t like that I keep forgetting to turn them back in.**

You laugh, a small thing. “Don’t worry. I’ll remind you to take them back. It shouldn’t take me long to finish them.”

You know yourself well enough. You can devour books within a few hours, if you are given the time to do so. And, more importantly, Jamie might like these far more than she does the Shakespeare. Still, whatever these books are, they won’t take the place that Shakespeare currently holds in your heart. Which reminds you that you still haven’t finished all of _his_ books yet.

 _Hamlet_ , for instance. You remember Dani saying that it was considered one of his greatest works, if not _the_ greatest. You’d thought it best to leave that one for last, but if you were going to have this wealth of books to choose from, then why not go ahead and begin reading it?

One of the books catches your eyes. It isn’t just the title, but the way that it is embroidered into the binding, the soft exterior of the book in comparison to some of the others, and you draw it out, holding it gently between your fingertips. You scan the front cover. It seems simple enough.

 **If you flip to the back** , Dani interrupts, **you can read a little bit about what it’s about. That’ll tell you more about it than just the title.**

“Thank you,” your murmur, carefully flipping the book to the other side and scanning the text. It seems easy enough. You take a deep breath. “Do I carry this with me, or do I leave it at the front to gather my things when I’m done?”

Dani sighs, and you can almost picture her kneading her forehead. **You keep it with you.**

“I apologize for exasperating you,” you say as you tuck the book under one arm and continue browsing along the shelf. “I haven’t learned much about your world outside of your apartment. Things like this are new to me.” You almost smile. “In fact, I’m not sure I would remember them if I _was_ from your time.”

 **You still would** , Dani replies almost immediately. **You wouldn’t have had nearly as long to forget.**

“To fade.” The words are through your lips before you think about it, a hush just as clearly as they are in your mind. You lips press together, and you pause. “Thank you,” you say before you can think to not say it, “for letting me choose my own books.”

There is silence within your mind, and for the briefest of moments, you think that Dani has stopped listening and has instead chosen to return up the path to her side of the gate. You wonder, briefly, if there is a room waiting for her there just as surely as there is one for you on your side. You do not know. You have not explored.

Then her voice comes back, and it so soft – softer even than yours, you think – so soft that you barely hear it even though it would be just as impossible not to.

**You’re welcome.**


	28. Chapter 28

Spring finally sets in, the weather more stormy and rainy as the cold snow begins to melt away – slowly at first, and then all at once, as though it was never there to begin with – and on the heels of spring comes summer, roaring like a lion, its heat waves making their appearances far earlier than you would have guessed. Your life takes on a new sort of habit – there is still time to read with Jamie, and there is still time for you to read, and you find that, eventually, the bookshelves that once lined your little room slowly disappear. At first, this makes you wary. You have gotten no indication that Dani’s brief moment of favor should incur this sort of wrath, and more importantly, you weren’t certain she could make such changes to the room that was your very own before she ever described the jungle or gave you more space to roam. And yet, it is only on leaving your room that you notice a new door in your hallway, one that leads to a library that grows more expansive the more books you read.

This library is unlike the one where Dani takes you on what is now a weekly venture. Where that one was more cool, cold metal and stark white walls with paper and cards to search through in trying to find books, this one is warm and as you imagined libraries in your time must have been. The walls are warm wood in keeping with that in your room, and the bookshelves themselves are built of similar material, their ends carved in a manner almost as intricate as the trunk in the wall across from your bed. Most importantly, there is a fireplace on one end with a rug set just in front of it. There is a chair next to the fireplace with a little table for your tea, and within the fireplace, there is a warm, crackling fire.

Sometimes, you take to sitting in here and rereading one of the books you have already read instead of staying above after Jamie is too tired to continue talking. You think, perhaps, that this might have been Dani’s intent – that you should stay inside, in your own place, instead of tucking her away, but you are not too sure. Regardless, it makes your part of the world seem warmer, and you are content.

Still, as much as you want to tell yourself that this is enough, something within you still aches for more. You cannot say what this more is or how you will know when you reach it. Perhaps you _won’t_. That may be part of what still being here is – wanting, wanting, wanting with no end to your desire to devour. In which case, it is entirely possible that Dani is right to fear you – but you refuse to believe that.

Instead, you find that innermost part of yourself churning every now and again. At the library, you find yourself drawn to books outside of the ones Dani considers to be for adults. You roam, you explore, as is your nature, and you find children’s books. Some of them are picture books, and these—

For some reason, it is these that hurt you the most, that make you ache ever more and more in that wanting way that you have. Perhaps it is only that you miss your daughter, even though you know – you are certain – that she is far gone, that she does not roam this world in the same manner as you do. And yet, knowing that doesn’t stop the ache in your chest.

You can’t even remember what she looked like.

You can’t even remember her name.

And yet, you remember that she existed, and you remember the soft touch of her baby hand clenching around your fingertips as you lay in bed next to your husband.

You do not know why this particular memory is so strong, given that it is so vague and nonspecific – and yet, it is. It is perhaps the first thing, the first feeling, that you remember remembering at all – although at the time, it was less a memory and more of an internal desire, an internal feeling that where you were was _wrong_ in some way. It was the first indication that this new body in which you had been placed was not the one that you were familiar with and that the bed in which you found yourself awakening was not your own. Yours would have a child tucked just next to your bed, just within reach. That one did not.

Every now and again when you visit the library, you find a family exploring the children’s area. You see a mother with her daughter – sometimes beleaguered, sometimes exasperated, sometimes waiting to see what the child would pick, sometimes showing them old books she remembers from when she was young – and you ache for those memories of your own, that nostalgia that you could share with your own daughter, your own blood. It isn’t nice to stand and stare – and while Dani doesn’t always see through her eyes to keep track of what you are doing anymore, you know that she would not approve of you having her act in such a manner. But you cannot seem to stop yourself from doing so.

Eventually, you begin to sit in the children’s section instead of aimlessly wandering through the others. You pick a few of the children’s books and read them so quickly that it isn’t worth checking them out or bringing them back with you. Dani’s clothes aren’t your style – if you could even be said to have a style in this day and age – but you make yourself comfortable enough.

You sit and you read and you watch and you do not know what you are waiting for, do not know what you hope for, but a longing that you know full well sits in the center of your chest, ready to pounce if the opportunity for whatever it is presents itself.

* * *

As the days go by, Viola spends more and more time at the library. Dani doesn’t always watch – doesn’t always _want_ to watch, if she’s honest, although in those first few visits, she sat right behind her eyes, making sure that Viola didn’t do anything untoward. But the more the ghost seems to respect the boundaries Dani has put in place – not leaving the library, coming to speak with her when she is finished selecting her books, letting Dani take control of her body easily and without much fighting – the easier it is for Dani to allow herself to fade into the background and let the ghost do as she pleases.

And the thing is? It _is_ comforting to fade away into a world where no one else can come to speak with her, provided that it’s only for a short amount of time. It gives her a place to recharge from the pressure of everything else that is going on – helps her deal with the darkness of the anniversary of Eddie’s death, helps her deal with….

Well, ironically enough, it helps her deal with the pressures of Viola.

Dani uses the time that she is in that inner space to explore Viola’s side of the gate, since the ghost does not seem against the idea. Sometimes the silence is more than she can handle, and on those days, she returns to her side or curls up in that space between her eyes until such a time as Viola decides to switch places with her again. It actually gives her a little glimpse into how the ghost acts when she is in control, which is…oddly comforting.

Of course, it is impossible to miss how often the ghost seems to fixate on children, and the action makes her more uncomfortable. Dani can’t help but remember how Viola had willingly dropped her to take Flora, how Viola had taken Flora with her to the middle of the lake, how Viola would have drowned Flora if Dani herself hadn’t interceded. Just because Viola wasn’t fully herself then didn’t make the actions any better, and a part of her can’t help but worry that this new fixation on children would end the same way.

But the more Viola simply sits in the library and reads children’s books, the more Dani is convinced that, too, is a baseless concern. Viola does not seem as though she has any intent to harm the children, nor does it seem as though she wants to do _anything_ to them. Only that calm staring at children with their parents, only that reading of books that are too small and thin to take back to the house unless they checked them out in great quantities – and for this, at least, Dani is grateful. She doesn’t want to field the questions that would most definitely come from the librarians (and might possibly come from Jamie): Are you planning on having children? Is one visiting you? So on and so forth.

It isn’t as though Dani hasn’t considered having children. When she was with Eddie, it had been the one _good_ thing of the situation – the possibility (the _likelihood_ ) of having her own son or daughter. Then Eddie died. Then he began to haunt her. Then she realized that maybe having children would be a _bad_ idea. Taking care of Flora and Miles, yes, had been an extension of her desire to change a child’s life; she certainly hadn’t lied to Henry when she told him that she wanted to help them. But a part of it had been meant to prove to herself that _yes_ , she _could_ raise a child of her own, maybe, even with Eddie hanging around.

Then Eddie left. Then there was Jamie. _Then there was Viola._

Sometimes, keeping an eye on Viola keeping an eye on the children she sees, Dani wraps her arms around her knees and wonders. But she isn’t going to address that until she trusts Viola more, and that’s not something that will come easily. Besides, how would she ever explain to a child that she was really two people? If she couldn’t forbid Viola from spending time with Jamie, then she certainly couldn’t forbid her from spending time with their child, should they ever have one.

But Dani isn’t thinking about having a child of her own. She isn’t. Not at all. If anything, she’s thinking about whether Viola’s fascination with them is rooted in her own desire for one, when she thinks about it in that constructive a manner at all. More often than not, she has come to the conclusion that it is simpler to leave her with Corduroy or Paddington or Winnie the Pooh (and then wondered why Viola is attracted to the _bears_ before considering directing her towards the Berenstain books).

Of course, Dani grows _mostly_ content to leave Viola to her business in the library – or as content as she _can_ be, considering – until one day….

* * *

You sit in what has become your customary chair in the children’s section with a new stack of the thin books with bright colorful pictures. The last family you’d seen had picked out a few of these so called _Dr. Seuss_ books, and while you expect they will be quite a bit different from the walking, talking animals you had been reading before, you expect a slightly higher thought fare. These are written by a _doctor_ , after all. You are curious to see just how someone of such high thought could write in a way that is appealing for children.

Then something tugs on your pants. (You have yet to convince Dani to wear a skirt for your comfort. In truth, you haven’t asked. You do not think she would appreciate the question, and in fact, it is much more likely that she will wear them all the more just to frustrate you. It _is_ her body, after all, and not yours. You know this. She won’t let you forget it.) You blink a couple of times and then close your book around your forefinger, glancing down before you.

A small child.

A _very_ small child.

Looking up at you with the biggest brown eyes you think you may have ever seen.

You stare back at him. At least, you _assume_ this is a him. His hair is cropped short, but its curls make it appear fluffy and longer than most of the little boys you have seen around here. He looks a little too old to be looking for children’s books, but maybe you have grown poor at estimating children’s ages in the centuries that you have been gone. Worse, you didn’t have children’s books like these when you were alive, so the only idea you have for how old a child reading these should be is based on your observance. But you could be wrong.

And, of course, that may not be why this child is tugging on your pants.

You press your lips together as you stare at the child, but his large brown eyes do not look away from you. “Hello,” you say, finally, staring at him. “Is there something I might help you with?”

The boy looks from you to the stack of books and then back again. He bites his lower lip then pushes his hands together, fingers wiggling against each other. “You can read.” It isn’t a question; it’s a statement, and he looks away as he says it. Then he takes a deep breath and peers up at you again. “Can you do the voices?”

You blink at him. For a moment, you aren’t sure you understand, but you nod anyway. As you nod, the boy’s face splits into a grin. It takes a moment, but you think you can guess at what he wants. Instead of picking him up and placing him in your lap the way you once might have with your own child, you move from the chair and sit on the floor with him, crossing your legs under yourself. He clambers into your lap without your suggesting it, and he pulls the stack of books to the floor, parsing through them until he finds one he likes. “This one!” he exclaims, with that same bright smile on his face.

It’s a book you haven’t read before. You don’t really reread the children’s books, although you have made the occasional exception for Pooh and his kin. They weren’t your first, but they have been your favorites. Corduroy might have been higher on that list if you knew the location where he was, but malls continue to elude you. This is one of those things that you believe there is little point in asking Jamie or Dani about. Jamie would do her best to explain it, but Dani would likely not take you there to experience it. So the subtleties of Corduroy are lost on you.

You take the book gingerly, and you open it to the first page. You aren’t sure exactly what voices the boy wants, but you begin to read anyway. He sighs with contentment and snuggles close, leaning back against you. It is a weird, _warm_ feeling.

Almost familiar.

_Almost._

(There is no way that this author can be a doctor. These books are all in simplistic rhyme full of words that feel imagined to you. Then again, Shakespeare imagined words of his own, so who is to say that this _Dr. Seuss_ cannot do the same thing? Perhaps _he_ is the new Shakespeare. You doubt it.)

_There is a scampering towards your room._

_You hear the footsteps before they reach you._

_They startle you out of the near rest you have entertained._

_No one is supposed to be back here,_

_at least,_

_not the one you_ want _here._

_But these come with a rushing,_

_a speed,_

_and all at once, your daughter runs into your room,_

_shuts the door behind her with a little giggle,_

_and then collapses with her back against it,_

_a bright grin on her face._

_You’ve seen her, of course._

_It is impossible_ not _to see her._

_But they have been keeping you far from her._

_At first, it was because they were afraid your illness would spread._

_Now, it is because you are not who you once were._

_They are ashamed of you._

_You know this._

_You_ know _this._

_You have never been one to be ashamed of yourself._

_You haven’t been before, and_

_you aren’t now._

_But looking at your daughter, you regret_

_you are not what you once were._

_What, not who._

_You are still who you were,_

_just not wrapped in the same trappings_

_and appearances_

_that made people believe it._

_She grins_

_and she grins_

_and your heart fills with warmth._

_Then she glances up._

_Her eyes meet yours,_

_and she freezes,_

_eyes widening._

_“I’m sorry,”_

_she says,_

_and it breaks your heart._

_“I wasn’t trying to disturb your rest._

_I can hide somewhere else.”_

Hide and Seek.

 _They must be playing_ Hide and Seek _._

_You know the game well,_

_know how you and Perdita used to run about the house_

_hiding from each other,_

_looking for each other,_

_learning the different routes around and through the manor._

_It was how the two of you came to know the secret doors,_

_the passageways, the servants’ corridors._

_Sometimes, you believe the two of you had a more intimate knowledge than your father did._

_You never told him that._

_Sometimes, you believe that Perdita lost that knowledge over the years._

_“No, no,”_

_you say,_

_your voice soft as can be._

_“You are not bothering me.”_

_You know not to gesture to her,_

_not to hold her in your arms,_

_because you do not want her to catch your illness._

_But then_

_no one else in your family,_

_no one else in the manor,_

_has caught the disease._

_Only you,_

_who has not died,_

_who refuses,_

_but who cannot make yourself well._

_“If you want to hide here,_

_you may.”_

_You smile._

_“In fact, I believe that no one would know to search for you here._

_It is quite the_ best _of hiding places, isn’t it?”_

_You try not to cough._

_It is impossible._

_The hacking fills your lungs,_

_wracks your body,_

_and you resist the urge to vomit._

_You can do this._

_Just for the few moments of the game._

_You can—_

“Raf, what are you doing?”

The boy in your lap squirms, and you stop your reading. You have not even been paying much attention to the book, having suddenly been thrown into one of your memories. There is so much to be learned from this – _you were sick_ , and it seems like you should never have forgotten that. Of course, you were sick. But the illness – _the lung, you remember, vaguely, the words floating in the back of your mind_ – did not kill you. That is certain. Your stubborn sense of will would not let it. But there are things that your will alone could not prevent. You do not remember yet what that is.

“She was just reading to me,” the boy in your lap says.

He must be Raf. That must be short for something. No one would just name their child _Raf_. Or maybe they would. These are strange times.

You glance up, and you see another child, older than this one, with wavy brown hair and bright eyes staring at the two of you. Her voice is softer than his is, as though she is more aware of the sanctity of books or more wary of the workers who will quiet them. “Raf, you shouldn’t bother people.” She glances up and meets your eyes. “He’s not bothering you, is he? Daddy’s been busy working, and I thought if I brought him here he could read or play on the playground outside while _I_ read, and I’ve got to do more reading for school and everything, and Dad likes it better when I’m reading instead of being out with everyone, and—”

The girl walks closer to you as she rambles on, and then she comes to a stop with a short distance between you. Closer than your daughter would come, you think, although you can’t remember that being the case. You know it, somehow, deep within your bones.

Or _Dani’s_ bones, as it were.

“He isn’t bothering me at all,” you say, and you find that it is true. In fact, as the boy clambers out of your lap and returns to the other girl, who you expect is his sister, with a scowl on his face, you find yourself disappointed that he is leaving. Something in you aches to continue the story, to keep the child in your lap. It is a familiar ache, but not a predatory one. You nod to the little boy. “I enjoyed reading to you.”

Raf pulls on his sister’s hand. “We should come back tomorrow, and then she can read more to me.”

“You should be reading yourself.” The girl doesn’t snap at him, but something in her is sad at this. She sighs and looks up to you. “He’s behind. He can’t—”

“ _I can too read!_ ” The boy clenches his hands into little fists, his brow furrowing. “I just like hearing other people read better! They do voices!”

“You can make your own voices!”

“It’s perfectly fine,” you say, reaching out one hand and hesitantly touching the girl’s. She doesn’t flinch away, and you grow warm at that, too. Although why she should flinch away, you do not know. It is not as though you are sick any longer. “If he wants me to read to him, then I can do so. It does not bother me.”

Something within you bubbles forth, a slight pressure just between your eyes, and you hear Dani, quiet but firm, say, **I can teach him. If he needs to learn how to read, I can teach him. Tell them that. Tell them you can teach him.**

“And if,” you continue, breaking through a conversation that the girl is having with her brother, “if he is having trouble reading, then perhaps I can help. I’m a very good teacher.”

The girl looks you over, and her eyes narrow. “If you’re a good teacher, why aren’t you in school, then? Shouldn’t you be teaching someone or grading homework or something like that? I thought teachers _lived_ at school. My teacher’s always there super late. I can see his car still there. He doesn’t ever leave.”

“I _quite_ doubt your teacher lives at the school,” you say, and you fumble for a moment, waiting on Dani to insert herself again, to give you an explanation, but she says nothing else to help you. You sigh. “I have taken a break from my official teaching capacity, due to some mental stress.” You can feel Dani scowling and bristling at the comment, although you are unsure if that is due to the wording or if she believes you are intentionally offending her. “But I would be more than willing to tutor your brother, if you would like.”

The girl looks at you while the boy tugs on her sleeve. “I’ll have to ask my Daddy,” she says, finally, her lips pressing together, brow furrowing. “I don’t think he’d like us learning from a strange woman we met in the library. He’d want to talk to you, I think. He’d want to know.”

“Of course.” You pause, then continue, “I will be here tomorrow at the same time, if he would like to speak with me then.”

Another hesitant nod from the girl. “Thank you,” she says softly, and she reaches out to touch your hand in the same manner that you just reached out to touch hers. She bites her lower lip and nods before taking her brother’s hand. “We’ll come back tomorrow.” She drags her brother off, but he turns back to give her a long look. Something in her aches.

You fade into the space in your mind where you and Dani usually meet, and she is…unkempt, perhaps, is the best word for it. “I apologize,” you say into the dark void, “if I have overstepped. _You_ are the one who suggested teaching the boy. I merely thought—”

“No, no, it’s okay.” Dani waves one hand at you then bites on her nails. “Only, I don’t think you’re the one who should be meeting with their dad.” She turns to you, plaintive. “He’s going to want to know that you know, um, things. You don’t know things.”

It is perhaps the most plain that Dani has spoken to you in a while, if ever. There doesn’t seem to be that push and pull between the two of you, that tension, that you normally feel. You are certain that will return later, but for now, it is the two of you together, going in the same direction with the same end goal. “If you believe that it is better for you to meet him, then that seems best to me. There is still much I do not know. You are right that you would be better for this.”

Dani nods to herself and begins to pace in the dark void. Her hands shake. “I’ll have to prepare.” She looks up at you. “No interfering or butting yourself in, okay? You’re going to have to let me take care of this.”

“Of course.”

You do not know what it is that is making her so anxious, and this time, you do not push to ask. This, you think, would be better to be seen in action. Asking will not help.

Still.

“I’m finished for now,” you say, “if you wish to return.”

“Yeah.” Dani nods, more to herself than to you. “Yeah, yeah, of course. I can do that.”

And within that moment, she is gone.

You stare into the space where she once was and take a deep breath. It is impossible for you to have a headache, and yet your head feels full – _large_ – as though it cannot contain everything that has happened. You feel…excited. Is that the word for it? _Excited._

Dani might actually let you spend time with real people. Outside of general encounters with the librarians – _actually spend time with people_. And with a child—

You walk back across the path leading out of the void back to the jungle, and you take a deep breath. This is good. You are certain that this is good. It has to be. What else could it be?

_Bad._

_It could be bad._


	29. Chapter 29

Dani is nervous.

You can feel her anxiety pooling in the center of her – it seeps through into your world the same as her pain over Eddie had, although it does not color everything in the same way. The clouds overhead do not grow a stormy grey, as they did before, and her feelings do not flood into you the same as they had before. You do not feel anxious. You do not shake with a wariness that makes you jump at every imagined sound (ironic, considering there is no sound here that is not created by you). If anything, it is an awareness that grows as you walk the path on her side of the jungle, where normally there _is_ sound, but now there is little of anything.

A flock of crows, intimidated by your presence, takes flight as you pass by, and the fruit you take from the trees lining the path is far more bitter than that which grows on your side. You keep the seeds in the palm of your hand for safe-keeping, intending to plant them once you return.

You rarely take the path anymore, given that you can summon yourself to that space behind her eyes with a thought, but in part you are concerned for the trepidation you feel growing within her. Sometimes, her emotions cause great changes to this inner world of hers, and if the turmoil is something you can appease in any way, shape, or form, similar to that of the fire, then you believe it is, in part, your duty to do so.

This is, after all, primarily your fault. If it can be said to be the fault of anyone.

Still, while you are not anxious in the same way that your host is, you cannot help but feel something trembling within you. It isn’t _that_ ; it is something much more _positive_ in nature, a warmth that shakes and spreads from the center of your chest to the tips of your fingers.

_Excitement._

You haven’t felt truly excited in….

Well, you don’t know how long. You are sure, when you were alive, that you felt this way, and it’s possible that the rage enthused monster you once were felt something akin to this when Dani called you (although your scant memories of the event suggest otherwise, suggest that it was something more akin to _relief_ that you could finally relax, that you could finally, truly, _rest_ ).

But it is not something you have felt since taking up residence within your host. You’ve really had no reason to feel this way. There hasn’t been anything you could look _forward_ to in this same sense. Perhaps the library, once it was revealed to you, but by then, you already knew what it was like. The library gave you a sense of wonder, not _this_ , whatever this is.

You reach the spot between her eyes, and you sit, and you wait.

* * *

Dani winces at the pressure building at that spot in the back of her head, and she lifts her fingers to it, knowing that she won’t calm it before Viola makes it past. The pressure moves through the center of her skull and stops just between her eyes. She resists pinching the bridge of her nose. “It’s too early,” she says instead, taking a sip of her tea. It isn’t the greatest at starting the morning – she still vastly prefers coffee – but today she doesn’t want the caffeine unless it comes with the calming of chamomile or peppermint.

“You’re too early,” Dani mumbles again with another wince. “There’s still a few hours left before—”

 **Time is meaningless here** , Viola murmurs, her voice echoing around the inside of Dani’s mind. Not painfully, it has never been painful. It’s just…uncomfortable. It feels weird to hear it like the telepathy of those mutants Jamie so enjoys, like a second conscience controlled by someone who does not have her best interests at heart (if her real conscience ever did), instead of externally as she hears everyone else. **I could leave for a few moments and return and have missed the entire thing. I would much rather stay here.**

Dani sighs. “I’ll let you know when it’s time,” she says. “Just go back.”

**No.**

“Ghostie bothering you again?” Jamie asks around her own cup of tea – an herbal orange and ginger flavor instead of the black tea she normally has early in the morning. Her brows lift as she glances across the rim towards her girlfriend. “Do I need to give her a good pop? Fight her off?”

“Yes,” Dani says with another sigh, finally giving in and pinching the bridge of her nose, “and _no_. Don’t think she’d take kindly to someone trying to fight her.”

**You’re right. I wouldn’t.**

“You know you’re just making me more anxious, right?” Dani asks, gaze glancing up, even though she can’t see Viola at all.

Jamie’s brows lift higher. “Anxious?” she asks, setting her cup to one side. “What do you have to be anxious about?”

Dani lets out a groan. “Viola made a friend with a little boy at the library, and—”

“A friend?” Jamie’s eyes shift, as though moving from their focus on Dani to focus on the woman within her. The change makes Dani even more uncomfortable, although she can’t put her finger on exactly why. “I didn’t know your ghostie could _make_ friends. You’ve been letting her out on a leash?”

**I do not like being leashed.**

“Just at the library. Figured it would be nice to let her pick her own books.” Dani rubs the back of her neck. “She spends most of the time hanging out in the kids’ section and reading picture books.”

“Sounds boring.” Jamie’s glance shifts again in that way that makes Dani uncomfortable. “What, you didn’t get enough picture books growing up?”

**There weren’t picture books in my time. Most children didn’t learn to read like they seem to do now, and the only books with pictures were the ornamental ones. Bibles, mostly. The pictures certainly weren’t for children.**

“She says they didn’t exist.”

**That is _not_ what I said.**

Dani gives her head a shake, even though she knows that won’t move Viola in the slightest. “Anyway, she made a friend with a little boy, and I offered to teach him how to read, and his dad is supposed to be meeting us – _me_ – today, and I’m just….” She lets out a deep breath, deeper than the sigh she’d kept letting out, and gives her head another shake. “It’s been a while since I’ve been around any children, other than Flora and Miles, and it’s always the parents who are the hardest to appease. Kids, they like you right off the bat most of the time. They like having someone who will listen to them and take them seriously, you know? But _parents_.”

Jamie reaches over and places her hand over Dani’s. “If his parents are anything like mine, they won’t give a flying rat’s ass, and if they aren’t, you’ll do fine. You’re strong, remember?” She meets Dani’s eyes and gives her a little smile. “The strongest person I know. And if they need a good bop on the head, let me at them.” She leans back against the counter and crosses her arms, then nods at Dani. “Better yet, let Viola at them. You can be intimidating, but she’s got that _posh_ thing going on. That might be worse.”

Dani’s eyes narrow. “Parents don’t like a teacher who thinks she knows more than them.”

 **I don’t think that** , Viola murmurs, and the pressure behind Dani’s eyes shifts just enough for it to feel _wrong_. The change doesn’t last, though. **I know better than to think I know more than they do. You don’t let me out enough to learn.**

Dani’s lips press together, and she can feel her teeth gritting against each other. “I don’t think it would be _wise_ to let Viola out to talk to a normal person.”

“Oi!” Jamie mocks an offended look. “You saying I’m not normal?”

“ _No._ ” Dani moves forward, wraps an arm around Jamie’s waist, and pulls her against her. “You’re _special_. My normal special.” She leans forward to press a kiss to her lips.

**I’m right here, you know.**

Dani groans. “Viola, I told you I would let you know when it was time. Why don’t you go back to your room?”

There’s a sigh that fills her mind – almost like the way a breeze ruffles the leaves in the trees, blows against her skin, and disappears without a second thought – and then the pressure _shifts_ again. It doesn’t feel wrong the way it had before, but it doesn’t feel quite _right_ either.

 **Ten minutes** , Viola murmurs, voice low. **I’ll give you ten minutes – or the best I can estimate it. Then I will be back.** The pressure moves across her skull again and then to that spot in the back of her skull and then it is gone.

“She’s not _watching_ us again, is she?” Jamie asks, brows lifting again as Dani remains paused where she is, her lips barely brushing against Dani as she speaks.

“ _Not anymore_ ,” Dani says, and she almost leans forward enough to finish the kiss until she realizes what Jamie’s said. “ _Wait_ ,” she continues, pulling back, eyes wide. “What do you mean _again?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the short chapter! It's a combination of things - first, I wanted to get something posted for Monday updates, and second, the chapter that this was originally part of (which does go into meeting with the kids' dad) was getting to be a much longer chapter than I really want as a whole chapter for this fic (if that makes sense).
> 
> So! This one is short - but the next one should be longer! (And don't worry, more big things coming - started writing them - but they're...a ways away.)


	30. Chapter 30

The library looms large as Dani approaches. She’s never really considered it to be _big_ before – after her time in university and the extensive library there, no others have really quite compared in size or depth. In fact, the local library is quite _small_ , with a selection of books that she quite enjoys but is really in a sense of need. But today, it feels larger than it actually is, given height and depth just from the anxiety thrumming in the pit of her stomach. Her hands wind together, fingers twisting against each other, as she walks closer.

This isn’t like when she approached Henry before her journey to Bly. That job position had been open for six months – the entirety of her stay in Britain up to that point – with no gap in weeks between its postings. No one was interested in working at Bly, and the worst of it was that it had still taken her six months to work up the gumption to interview for the job while dealing with Eddie’s ghost haunting her at every step.

Of course, she had done it anyway, but there had been time to prepare, time to test and control her reactions to the haunting as much as possible before meeting with Henry and going to Bly.

Here, there has been no time. There has been no posting. There is no guarantee that what she is doing is wanted or even needed, and beyond that, there is no reason to expect that the boy’s father will be appreciative of her offer in the first place. The only thing she has to go on is the word of that girl – older than Miles had been, when she first went to Bly, but likely close to his age now – and if she knows anything about children (and she likes to think that she does), the word of a child (or teenager, as the girl may be) is not always very much to go on.

Dani takes a deep breath to steady herself and then winces as she feels the now quite familiar pressure begin at the base of her skull and wander across to that space between her eyes. That does _not_ help. “Now is _not_ the time.”

**I gave you ten minutes. Am I wrong?**

It has been much longer than ten minutes, but Dani doesn’t feel the need to correct her. Instead, she feels the pressure build behind her eyes and then disappear. A bubble of anger ripples beneath her skin. **It has been _longer,_ and you did _not_ call for me when it was time. Do not lie to me.**

“It will be _time_ when we are _inside_. It isn’t time now.”

The anger sputters but doesn’t quite die out. Dani can imagine the ghost crossing her arms and staring at her. She would far prefer to have this conversation in that void (more, she would prefer to have it in Viola’s room), but that would require being somewhere she can sit without having to worry about interruptions. Trying to do that while walking? _Impossible._

Dani takes a deep breath. “When do I normally tell you to come out?”

**When we’re in the library.**

“Are we in the library now?”

There is some slight, incomprehensible mumbling before Viola finally says, **Close enough.**

“Look, I’m not going to act any different just because we’re meeting someone. I would have gotten you once we were safely inside.” Dani presses her lips together. This close to the library, there are other people on the sidewalk next to her – well, _person_ , in this case – a woman about her age, maybe even younger, with shockingly blonde hair, bright brown eyes, and legs that could go for _days_. If anything, Dani is surprised that she is wearing shorts that short in this weather, but it’s the semi-transparent robe that flows past the shorts that seems most out of place.

Not that she can say anything, given that the woman is giving her an odd look. Probably because she heard her talking to herself. Which, outside of the given context of the library, _is_ odd. Dani offers the woman an awkward smile and raises her hand, waggling her fingers, but the woman just scoffs at her and pulls ahead and away.

Dani winces. “Viola, I can’t talk to you out here.”

**Whyever not?**

“ _People are looking at me funny_ ,” Dani hisses. “It’s not good for someone to be arguing with themselves in public. They’re going to think I’m crazy.”

 **You’re not crazy.** There’s a pause before Viola says, **Why don’t you just explain that you have someone else living inside you? That should clear everything up.**

“ _No, that would make it worse._ ” Dani shakes her head, pinches the bridge of her nose, and then takes a deep breath as she walks into the library. “I’ll talk to you later. After we meet with the kids’ dad. I’m not going to be able to talk to you during, or he’s not going to let us teach his son. He’s going to think we’re – _I’m_ – crazy and a danger to his kids. Do you want him to think that?”

**No.**

“Good. Play nice.”

There’s that indistinct, incomprehensible muttering – some sort of reply under Viola’s breath – and then silence, other than that trickle of rage still bubbling under her skin, a feeling that Dani can’t make disappear. The thing is – Dani still isn’t sure this is a great idea. She hasn’t said that to Jamie (partly because she’s certain her partner could pick up on that without her saying anything, partly because she doesn’t want Viola to hear her say it (and she doesn’t always know when Viola is listening in)). There hasn’t really been time to consider whether teaching this boy to read with Viola around is in his best interest. Sure, Viola has been doing better, and sure, she hasn’t been a temple of constantly burning rage who indiscriminately kills whoever encounters her – but that part of her _does_ still exist, no matter how low Viola has pushed it away and hidden it. Dani knows that as sure as she feels that rage bubbling beneath her skin now.

 _That_ is what makes her wary about this whole proceeding. Just because Viola has been good doesn’t mean she can’t be _bad_ , and given how bad she can be, spending time with children is probably not the best idea.

But Dani isn’t going to reverse her decision now. _She_ was the one who had suggested she teach the boy, not Viola. To back out now would be to likely cause irreversible damage to whatever companionship she’d been building with Viola. The rage that only barely singes her blood now would grow. She can’t take that risk either.

Which puts her at an impasse.

Dani takes another deep breath as she moves to the children’s section of the library, trying to steel herself. Then she sits in the same chair where Viola usually sits, clasps her hands together in her lap, and scans the room. The children don’t seem to be here, which means their father likely isn’t either. That leggy blonde woman is, however, and she stands next to a man with an outcrop of dark, _dark_ hair and the beginnings of a stubbly beard. The woman tangles her arm around his and leans against him, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

_Ew._

Dani turns away from the two of them. There’s something uncomfortable about such public displays of affection in a library. She can deal with them pretty much anywhere else, but the library feels a little garish to her. People come here for seclusion and research, and this isn’t a college library where students shack up in study rooms or against bookshelves just for the thrill of it. Maybe people do that in normal libraries, too. She shudders at the thought.

 **They aren’t here yet** , Viola says, her voice echoing in Dani’s mind, a nice reprieve from the clinging the blonde is still doing out of the corner of Dani’s gaze.

“They might not come at all,” Dani says under her breath, as quietly as she can. “This man, whoever he is, might not want to meet with a perfect stranger that his children found at a library. He might prefer an actual tutor.” She closes her eyes and finds herself in that void of an area right behind her eyes, where she knows that Viola has been paying attention.

Viola has her arms crossed, her white night gown draped about her as she paces to and fro. (Dani wonders, briefly, why she has never seen Viola in anything else but decides now is not the appropriate time to ask about it.) She pauses as she notices Dani standing there, and her eyes sweep her carefully. “I thought you said we couldn’t talk. Didn’t want to appear crazy.”

“I thought we could talk in here.” Dani presses her lips together. “When they get here, they’ll say something, and I can go back. But you’re _anxious_ , and I thought—”

“I’m not anxious,” Viola interrupts. “I’m not. It’s different.”

Dani stares at the ghost – at her crossed arms, at her pacing, at her stern look – and nods. “Not anxious. _Impatient_ , then.”

Viola flushes, the pale skin of her cheeks darkening as blood she does not have rushes into them, but she doesn’t look down or away in embarrassment. Instead, she hold Dani’s gaze as much as she can. She holds still, too, pausing in her what seems like ceaseless pacing. Bu she doesn’t correct her at all, doesn’t tell her precisely what she’s feeling, although Dani’s sure that if Viola gave it any sort of thought, she would know the precise – if archaic – word for it.

But before Dani can say anything (good or bad or neither), a child’s voice from far away – farther than it would be if she were fully in control of her body and not just in this void space in the midst of her mind – comes, excited. “She’s here! She’s here!” Dani looks away from Viola, to the portals of sight mimicking her eyes, where she can just barely see the image of the boy from the day before with the girl who must have been his sister. He tugs on the girl’s arm with a bright grin.

“I’ve got to go,” Dani says, turning back to Viola briefly. “Stay here. Don’t interrupt.”

Viola rolls her eyes much in the same way that a petulant child does when their mother tries to tell them to do something they have very little intent of doing in the first place. “Go, go.” She waves one hand, flicking her away. “I’ll just stay in here and _watch_ , why don’t I?”

Dani doesn’t take the time to respond, instead willing herself back to her rightful place. She returns to find the boy staring up at her, a bright grin on his face. She smiles at him and reaches down to tousle his hair. “Well, hello there.”

The boy blinks at her a few times, confused. His sister rushes after him and grabs the back of his shirt, pulling him away. “ _Raf,_ ” she hisses, “you can’t just annoy people like that!”

“Wasn’t annoying her,” Raf says with a pout. “Did the same thing yesterday, and she didn’t mind at all.” He looks back up at Dani. “Right? Didn’t bother you at all?”

“No,” Dani answers, offering him her warmest (but not brightest) smile. “You didn’t bother me at all.”

“See?” Raf glares at his sister and sticks his tongue out at her. “I know what I’m doing, Lu.”

 _Lu_ , Dani thinks. That can’t be her real name; it has to be a shorthand for something. She can’t guess what. Her gaze lifts and focuses on the young girl. “You said that your father would need to talk to me, right?” she asks, a gentle sort of prodding. “Is he here?”

The girl – _Lu_ – glances away from her, and Dani follows her gaze to the couple she had previously been avoiding looking at: the leggy blonde and the man with the shock of dark, dark hair and the beginnings of stubble. She tries not to grimace, but fails and hides the expression as Lu turns back to her. “You want me to get him?”

Dani starts to nod, but as she does so, the man turns toward them, dark eyes scanning until he finds his daughter where she stands. As much as she has been under-impressed by the blonde woman hanging on his arm, she has to admit he cuts an intimidating figure – not attractive in the slightest, not for her, but full, somehow. A man who knows what he is and how to be. However, she can’t help but think that he would look better bald. More intimidating. More… _more_ , somehow.

“Luisa,” he says, and his voice cuts across to them, even though he is barely speaking. “What have I told you about bothering strangers?”

Lu – _Luisa_ , Dani thinks, filing away the girl’s real name for later – turns back to her father, lips pressed together. “She’s not a stranger,” she lies a little too loudly for the library (one of the librarians turns to her with a finger over her lips, the sound of a strong _shush_ on their tip). Then she turns back to Dani and says a little quieter, “We met you yesterday. That’s not as strange as someone we haven’t met yet.”

It’s flawed logic, but it’s a child’s logic, so Dani accepts it.

Her father’s gaze moves from Luisa to his son, who is still tugging on Dani’s pants leg in an attempt to get her to let him crawl into her lap. Then he gives a firm singular nod and begins to approach them. The leggy blonde starts to walk with him, but the man untangles his arm from hers and gives her a strong look. He doesn’t even say anything. When he starts forward again, she stays where she is, leaning back against the counter with her arms spread, popping pink bubblegum as she waits.

 **I can deal with him** , Viola says in the back of her mind. **I’ve dealt with this unique brand of—**

Dani ignores her as much as she can as Viola continues. She can’t say anything to her now – to do so would give a hint to the children that something was wrong with her, and their father would likely think she was saying something to _them_ and ask about it later. Not worth it. Even if it _would_ get the ghost to be quiet.

Instead, Dani places a hand on Raf’s shoulder, stilling him, and stands, ready to begin whatever conversation their father wants to have. He’s taller than her – a _full head_ taller than her – and the closer he gets, the more she has to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. She, too, is strong. Much stronger than people think she can be. The question is whether her strength will help here or not.

Calling on Viola to help is not an option.

“You must be Raf’s dad,” Dani says, interrupting the rambling that Viola continues in her mind, silencing her, and reaches out her hand. “It is _such_ a pleasure to meet you.”

“ _Rafael_ ,” the man says – less a correction and more of a command for his son to return to his side. Raf – _Rafael_ – hangs his head and grips Dani’s pants leg in his little hand, giving it a squeeze, before going over to the man. Luisa doesn’t need the command; she is at her father’s side in an instant, beaming up at him – all smiles, no matter how intimidating the man might seem. She wraps her arms around his waist and buries her head in his chest. Her father runs a hand through her hair, and she turns outward from him to face Dani, still leaning against him.

His children at his side, the man reaches out his hand and takes Dani’s in his own with a firm grip. No shake, just that grip, unmoving and implacable. “Emilio Solano,” he says by way of introduction, his dark eyes staring at Dani as if they could bore into her. “And you are?”

“Dani,” she says, very matter of fact, trying to give his hand one good shake and failing. “Dani Clayton.” She releases his hand, even though it feels more like he is releasing hers, and offers him the nicest parent-teacher smile she can. It’s one she feels like she’s perfected over her time working with children’s parents, and it’s a smile she very rarely – _if ever_ – offers to the children themselves. It isn’t meant for them. It won’t do much _for_ them. “Should we move outside? Wouldn’t want to bother anyone else in here by talking.”

Luisa looks up at her dad, presses her lips, and then glances over to Dani with a little shake of her head. It isn’t out of any attachment the girl has for her – point of fact, Dani is fairly certain she just makes Luisa uncomfortable – but there’s something else in her eyes, something like fear. Of her dad?

Dani clenches her hands and then lets them go.

“No. Here is enough. You – _I_ – **we** will be quieter here.” Emilio gestures her away from the children’s section. “I am sure you have found a table in here where we can sit and speak without having to reduce ourselves to such _menial_ positions.” His gaze roams over the children’s table in the back corner, with the chairs built for children’s sizes, covered with books and a few wooden toys where dinosaurs or foxes could be matched to their proper shapes. Then it returns to her, lingering expectantly, brows raising. “This is _your_ library, isn’t it?”

 _That doesn’t mean I know where everything is_ , Dani thinks, gritting her teeth together. She’s very rarely in the library for any long periods of time. Usually she knows exactly where she wants to look for a book – whether she’s binge-reading through a particular author or comes with one in mind – and doesn’t take much time to explore other areas. She knows that there are tables at different intervals next to the rows of books, but if asked which rows end with a table, she wouldn’t know.

**You’re useless.**

Dani feels a cold touch in the center of her forehead – it feels as though it is external, even though she knows it is nothing like that at all. Instead, it is a touch from within, and wherever she is in this mindscape of her brain, that part of her crumples and is forced back and away, until she finds herself in that room of Viola’s, the door firmly shut. She takes a deep breath, trying to still herself, and tries the door.

Locked.

Of course.

Dani pounds on the door. “Viola! _Let me out of here!_ You need me!” She takes a deep breath, staring at the walls of the room, and pulls herself to the bed, feeling as though the walls are closing in on her. “ _Let me out!_ ” she yells again. “ _This isn’t funny!_

“ _Viola!_ ”

* * *

You know – of course, you know; it is impossible for you to _not_ know – that your host is less than pleased with your current arrangement. Her hands ram against the center of your chest, just where her heart should be, but you are stronger than she is. You know this. You have always known, somewhere in the back of your mind, even though you haven’t thought about it.

Before now, you have had no real reason to use this power of yours, with the exception of the fight Jamie had with Owen so long ago. Even then, it had been used in an attempt to assuage fear with no real intent to impede your host in any way. You hadn’t seen it as a problem. You were only trying to communicate in the best way you could.

This, however, is of an entirely different sort. You aren’t trying to learn how to communicate with your host or her friends, as you have already found a way to do that. You aren’t trying to comfort anyone; in fact, your actions have probably only soured your host against you (an unfortunate necessity, given the situation). You aren’t trying to _help_ anyone, other than yourself. Possibly your host, by association.

The thing is that you _know_ this sort of person. You dealt with them often during your life, although you can only remember vague details – nothing specific. He is a _vulture_ , one who will gaze over and try to pick out what he can gain without a second thought to the very real person sitting across from him, and if he decides that there is no worth in her, then he will leave just as quickly. The vultures you knew – you suspect they were of an elite sort of class – even they bowed to your will, in the end. You just had to play the part first.

You were very good at playing the part.

When you were alive, that is.

You learned to hone your ambition and your will into a fine point, meant to disarm and dispatch those lesser beings in front of you. If he wants to try to peck at you or your host at the expense of his children, then he will find himself laid bare before you.

Your host – Dani – no matter how strong she believes herself to be, this is not a battle she will win. Her temper over the children will get the best of her. Yours will not get the best of you.

“Of course,” you murmur, as placating as you can be. You lead him away from the children’s area to one of the other tables. You know this library – not as well as you know your host’s house, perhaps, but better than your host does. You are, in fact, the one in control of her body here more often than not. “Would you prefer I refer to you as _Emilio_ or _Mr. Solano?_ ”

The question gives him a sense of control. A false one, to be certain, but one all the same.

“Emilio will be fine.”

The table closest to the two large windows in the back is free, so you take that one. Emilio doesn’t seem like the sort of person who lives here – not that you have much interactive experience with those sorts of people, only what feels like thousands of hours of seeing them interact with Dani and Jamie at their flower shop. You sit at one end, just in front of the corner, so that the windows are more of a feature than you are. In fact, the light from the windows actually casts you in shadow, something that you could have used more to your advantage if you were more comfortable in Dani’s body and what she is wearing, but that provides use all the same.

Emilio sits at the opposite end of the table without your needing to gesture for him to do so, and the kids flock to the two remaining chairs. Luisa takes one of them and scoots it closer to her father, while Rafael tries to get up into his and fails. Luisa sighs and grabs her brother, lifting him into her lap.

That tells you everything you need to know.

“Ms. Clayton,” Emilio begins by way of broaching the conversation.

You wave one hand at him. “ _Dani_ , please.”

“Dani, then.” Emilio clasps his hands together and places them on the table in front of him. You suspect that most men would hunch over at this point, but he doesn’t. If you were in your own body, you are sure that you would cut the same intimidating figure that he does, holding the same height as such, but it is harder to try and mimic that with Dani’s body, which is much smaller, more lithe. “Luisa tells me that you want to tutor my son.”

You offer him a soft smile, your hands clasped together beneath the table. “Rafael asked me to read to him yesterday,” you begin, and you give Rafael an encouraging smile, which he readily returns, “and on learning that he has trouble doing the same himself, I thought it would be wise to offer. I was a teacher of children just like him once, and it would be no trouble at all to oblige you now.”

One of Emilio’s brows shoots up – perhaps at your language, which must seem a little stilted and formal to him. Ah, well. There is not much you can do about that. “If you were a teacher before, why aren’t you a teacher now? It seems to me like it would be in your best interest to go where the money is greatest.”

_Ah. One of those._

You give him a little nod, but as you do so, you release whatever your power has been doing to hold you host in place. Immediately, you feel her presence right behind your eyes, although she does not take your place. Perhaps she cannot. You are unsure.

**Viola, what the _hell!_ Don’t _ever_ do that to me again—**

“You are unwise to assume that I would make the most money by teaching great groups of children.”

You feel Dani raise an eyebrow, and you can imagine her staring at the man across the table from you. **He’s got that right. Teachers don’t make much of anything. If he thinks otherwise, he is _sadly_ mistaken.** She pauses, then continues, **Tell him I’m not interested in making money by teaching. I care more about the kids than I do about that.** You can feel her glaring at you. **It would be _best_ if you let me explain _myself—_**

“I would do this for free,” you continue, phrasing your host’s words in a way that is certain to appeal more to the man across from you. If money is his concern, then its absence from this equation will seem good to him. “I have more than enough to take care of myself already. This would be out of the kindness of my heart.”

 **Ugh, Viola, he’s going to think you’re a creep.** Dani sighs. **We’re not planning on kidnapping his kids, and I haven’t been tutoring other kids, so—**

“We can meet here, in the library,” you continue. “There’s plenty of space here for teaching, and plenty of books to choose from. The librarians will make sure nothing too untoward happens.”

Emilio considers this. “Do you have any references?”

“Of course,” you answer, although you have no idea what he means.

 **Let me handle this** , Dani hisses from where you are. **I know what he means, and I _know_ you don’t.** You imagine her crossing her arms, fingers tapping on one of them. **Give me my body back.**

You want to tell her that polite young women amend that statement with a _please_ , but she has warned you of how it would look to speak with her while others are watching. You do not want to risk it.

_You return._

Dani takes a deep breath – gasping, halting – as soon as she returns to full control of her body. She knows she looks panicked – knows that there is no way that this could possibly be good for the family across from her – but right now, she doesn’t quite care. This whole operation has to end. If Viola’s just going to push through and take control of her and lock her away just to spend time with these kids, then—

_Why would she think that Viola wouldn’t step in to stop her? If she was_ really  
 _going to try and turn Emilio against her, why wouldn’t Viola force herself forward?  
__How can she, in the little time she has, change things so completely that_  
Viola won’t be able to recover?

She doesn’t know. There are a lot of things. Maybe—

“Here.” Emilio pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket, along with a pen. It’s a little more haphazard than she would expect someone of his assumed prestige to be – a ballpoint pen could burst at any point and cover his white pants with black ink – but maybe he has the money to easily replace them if that should happen. “I have actually been looking for a nanny for my children. Luisa tries,” he continues, and his daughter looks up at him with large, doe eyes, “but a thirteen year old is not the same as an adult.” He looks up at Dani, meeting her eyes, and his expression shifts as he takes in her panicked expression. “Is something wrong?”

_Yes._

“No,” Dani says, forcing herself to smile. “No, no, nothing’s wrong. I have a minor anxiety disorder, that’s all.” The lie is easy on her lips, far easier than trying to explain everything with Viola would be.

**What are you doing?**

Dani continues, “That’s why I don’t teach anymore – I’ve learned to control the fleeting moments of panic, but having them in a room full of children? Not exactly the _best_ thing, you know?” She quickly writes down Henry’s name and the most recent number she has for him. “I have other references, too,” she says, glancing back up and meeting Emilio’s eyes, “but Henry is the most recent.” She writes down another number and taps it. “This is my number, in case you need it.”

But Emilio’s expression hasn’t changed. If anything, it has gotten worse throughout her explanation. He takes the paper and pen from her and stuffs them into his pocket the same way she might a candy bar wrapper that she intends to throw away later once she finds a trash can.

“Is something wrong?”

“My mom struggled with that,” Luisa says, her voice squeaking the tiniest bit. She wraps her arms a little more tightly around her brother and rests her head on top of his.

Emilio shoots her a look, and Luisa abruptly stops, her lips pressing together. She doesn’t look up. Rafael, bright-eyed, looks from Dani to his father and then back again. “You’re not crazy. You read really well! Crazy people can’t read—”

Luisa thwacks the back of her brother’s head and glares at him. “She’s not crazy.”

“ _Ow._ ” Rafael rubs the back of his head and squirms out of Luisa’s lap. He climbs into Dani’s without her permission and glares at his sister. “I’m gonna stay here. Where people don’t hit me.” He sticks his tongue out at Luisa, who just sticks hers out at him.

“ _Stop this now._ ” Emilio’s voice is low and gravelly, and Luisa’s face blanches at the sound. She looks down at her hands, fingers tangling with themselves, but Rafael looks up at Dani. Then Emilio meets Dani’s eyes again. “Luisa is right, although it is none of your business. My late wife suffered from a far worse disorder than yours appears to be, and it was her downfall.” He looks her over once. “But you appear to have yours under control.”

 _I don’t_ , Dani wants to say, but she can feel Viola’s frustration bubbling within her. Her blood _boils_. “I wouldn’t have offered to teach your son if I thought he’d be at any risk with me.” It was true, on the surface, although continuing to act as though she is entirely safe is another matter. “Check with Henry,” she continues, nodding towards the paper that is no longer on the table. “I was dealing with this when I worked for him,” although in a different matter, given that Eddie was an entirely different ghost than Viola is turning out to be, “and it turned out just fine.” If _just fine_ meant leaving Bly with an entirely real, entirely frustrating ghost living within her.

But, then, that proved her words right, didn’t it? The children’s safety – the children’s _lives_ – came first, even to the detriment of her own. Henry might not tell him that – some things couldn’t be explained (and wouldn’t be believed if they were) – but she’s sure he would give a glowing review. Not that it particularly helps here.

She’s stuck.

Then Dani turns to Luisa. “I’m sorry,” she says. “About your mother.”

“It’s okay,” Luisa lies. (It is always a lie when a child says they are okay with the disappearance or death of a parent. There are exceptions, perhaps, for abusive assholes, but Dani knows from experience that whenever she said it was okay that her father was gone, she had always been lying. Even now, she would be lying. It isn’t because she knew the man or even necessarily liked him. She’d never met him. That wasn’t fine.) “It was a long time ago.”

Emilio nods. “She’s lived longer without her than she did with her.”

Luisa nods in agreement.

Rafael wiggles in Dani’s lap, looking back up at her. “I never met her. Everyone says she was _crazy_ —”

Luisa shoots her brother another look, and he quiets quickly. “She wasn’t _crazy_.” Her lips press together, and she looks up, meeting Dani’s eyes as much as she can. “She was just sick. Like _you’re_ sick. Only worse.”

Dani has her doubts that Luisa’s mother even _remotely_ suffered from what she is currently suffering from, but she can’t quite explain that to them, can she? “I’m sorry,” she says again, even though she knows the words aren’t the balm she wishes they could be. “I know what it’s like to lose someone important to you.” First Eddie, then Hannah. Now, she’s afraid that, eventually, she will lose herself. She’d become complacent as Viola seemed to be more amicable, but after being forcefully pushed out of control of her body—

“It hurts. You say it’s fine, and sometimes it is, but it still hurts. That’s what loss is. Pain, right here.” Dani taps the center of her chest. “Things you can’t see or hear without thinking about them and how they’d say it, things you want to share with them. Sometimes you forget, and you go to share, and then the pain of it hits again. _But,_ ” she raises one finger, “it’s a warm pain. You remember something you like about them and instead of the pain here,” she presses her hand over her chest again, “it pools here like tears.” She taps the corner of one eye. “You learn to live with the pain, though.” At this, she glances up to Emilio, meeting his eyes. “Don’t you?”

Emilio looks at her, and it seems as though he has relaxed. That, at least, is good, considering that Dani isn’t quite relaxed in the slightest. She takes a deep breath and forces herself to settle. “Is there anything else you need from me?”

“No.” Emilio stands, and as he does, Luisa moves from her chair as well, followed by Rafael jumping out of Dani’s lap. “I think you have given me quite enough to think about. I will call you within the week, if this Henry fellow checks out.”

Dani nods. She could have given him Owen’s number as well – more than one reference is better – but she doesn’t know where he’s ended up for the time being. She isn’t sure that any number she has would actually reach him, and giving Emilio an outdated number would reflect poorly on her. Better to not.

“Thank you,” Dani says, voice soft, “for meeting with me. I will await your call.”

“See that you do.” Emilio nods to his children, and they follow him as he walks away. Rafael turns back to give Dani a bright smile as they meet up with the leggy blonde, who is still leaning against the counter, despite what looks like multiple requests from the closest librarian for her to move. The boy even shoots her a thumbs up when they walk through the door, one that Dani mimics back to him, even though she doesn’t feel quite right doing so.

 **So did that…go well?** Viola asks. She’s been surprisingly quiet since letting Dani regain control of her body, but Dani knows she’s been watching the entire thing. The frustration ebbs away entirely, and Dani can feel the ghost starting to almost relax. **That went well, right?**

Dani’s teeth grit together. “It doesn’t matter if it went well or not,” she hisses. “It matters that you _forced me out and locked me up_.” She glances up, as though she could look at Viola, but there’s no one there. There’s never _anyone_ there, unless she wants to go to that void just behind her eyes. She shudders. _Not right now._

**I only thought—**

“ _I don’t care what you thought, Viola! You don’t treat people – you don’t treat **me** – that way!_” Dani sighs, rubs her forehead, and then forces herself to swallow. “We’re not talking about this right now. Later. Tomorrow, maybe. But not right now.” She takes another deep breath, trying to force herself to calm. It doesn’t help. _Of course_ , it doesn’t help.

Viola is still here, and Viola can take control whenever she wants, and _nothing_ will help with that. It can’t.

_She’s stuck._


	31. Chapter 31

The door slams behind Dani as she returns to her house – a sound so loud that it would have disturbed other occupants in apartments surrounding her, if she lived in an apartment, and would likely have given cause for some strong yelling through much thinner walls. As it is, the strength of the slam shakes the walls around her. One of the pictures on the wall – one of Miles and Flora, ironically enough – drops to the floor with a thunk and a tinkling of shattered glass.

Dani pushes a hand through her hair and takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself, but it doesn’t work. She wonders, briefly, if her anger has the same effect on Viola that the ghost’s has on her, if it boils beneath her skin the same way that _implacable rage_ bubbles beneath hers, more recently than it had before, as though the two of them – now past their animosity towards each other – hers very much present where Viola’s was apparently only ever assumed – as though, now that they are on speaking terms, walls that must have been put in place to make things _good_ between them are slipping away – as though Viola was on her best behavior until she believed they were _friends_ and now she feels as though she can regain her fullest, most powerful self – as though _Dani_ would be _fine_ with Viola jumping in and taking over her whenever she wants _just because they’re friends now_.

They _aren’t_ friends. They are roommates forced to share a body because Dani thought the offer would save Flora (it did), and while it is not always as bad as it could be, today has forcibly shown her that it could _easily_ get that bad – that Viola could, and apparently _would_ , when she thought it was necessary, force her out of the possession of her own body to do whatever she wanted.

Dani might be the deed holder to her body, but it doesn’t mean much to her if Viola can evict her whenever she wants. It doesn’t mean much to her when she has to live in a way complacent to the whims of the malevolent ghost within her to be able to have any control whatsoever.

The only reason she is in control _now_ is that Viola _allows_ her to have it.

The only reason rules might work is that Viola _agrees_ to them.

The only reason that—

**You are upset with me.**

Dani’s teeth grit together. Her throat tightens. _No_ , she wants to say, _I’m upset with me. I’m upset that I have just as much control as I believed I did. I’m upset that I believed your reassurances – coming from you, from Jamie, from Owen. There is no reassurance. Just because you might be_ good _doesn’t mean that this is okay._

But she can’t – _won’t_ – say any of that. It will only lead to more reassurances on Viola’s part, none of which will make her feel any better. It isn’t as though she’d _lost_ anything today. She’d only been reminded of what she already knew.

Viola is still a threat.

She always will be.

**Dani?**

Another deep breath in. Dani’s hands clench, fingers tightening on nothing. She sits on the couch, closes her eyes, and returns to the empty void behind her eyes, hating herself for doing it.

But before she can say anything, Viola begins to speak. “I am sorry,” she says, although nothing in her posture or positioning suggests this is the case. “I knew that you would not like me interfering, but I have dealt with people like that Emilio before. You were not listening to me.”

“You don’t know that.”

It’s _true_ , but there’s no way that Viola could know that for certain.

“Dani, I am stuck behind your eyes, seeing things through them for most of my stay here. I know when you are paying attention and when you are not.” Viola clasps her hands in front of her, appearing very much as another image of Emilio, albeit feminine. But there is still that surge of power – of _presence_ – that Dani knows she doesn’t have. No one looks at her and is intimidated.

Maybe they should be.

“That _doesn’t matter_.” Dani’s lips press together, hands still clenching into fists. “You don’t…you don’t just _tuck me away_ because you think you know better than I do. This is _my_ body – not yours.”

Viola keeps her eyes on her, but otherwise does not move. “You chose to share it with me,” she says, her voice soft. “I did not steal it from you the way you believe Peter Quint did with Miles. I did not _coerce_ you into allowing me to stay. You _chose_ this. You _offered it_ to me.”

“Yeah, well, I changed my mind,” Dani snaps. “Your being here has _no_ benefit. If anything, it has only made my life _worse_. Spending all of my time being afraid that you’re going to devour me and then finally being convinced that maybe, _just maybe_ , we could live together like peaceable people, and you go and do _that_.” She can’t help but glare at Viola, one hand thrown out in front of her. “That’s not _peaceable_ , Viola. That’s _abusive_. I can’t do anything to you, but you can tuck me away whenever you want, lock me in that little room of yours, and throw away the key. That’s not _good_. That’s not _healthy_.” She takes a deep breath and shakes her head. “And it’s not _worth_ it.”

Viola remains standing. Her expression doesn’t change. Her _posture_ doesn’t change. _Nothing_ changes. It feels as though whatever Dani has said is just hitting her and disappearing, as though none of it matters at all.

Of course, it doesn’t. Viola’s the one with the control here.

“I’m sorry that you feel that way,” Viola says, finally. Her lips press together, and she gives a little nod. There is nothing complacent in her stance. Nothing Dani can read at all.

“I wish,” Dani starts, voice soft, “I wish you would just leave.”

A normal person might regret that as soon as they said it, might regret the pain they cause the other person when they do. But Viola – as much as she might have once been a person, as much as she might still _be_ one – is just a parasite. Taking and taking and taking and giving nothing back in return.

Dani takes another deep breath. “I can’t stand to look at you.”

And she leaves.

* * *

You remain in that space behind her eyes.

There are moments, and then there are _moments_.

You are not sure yet which one of them this is.

Nothing is completely irreparable. You know that. You _believe_ that. Your host is a creature of compassion, and no matter how angry she is now – at you, at her situation – she will, eventually, come around. As long as she is aware that you are a person with thoughts and memories and feelings just as much as she is, she will come around. She might not apologize for what she’s said, but neither will you apologize again for acting in the way that you did.

It was _necessary_. You wouldn’t have done so otherwise. Of course, your host will not believe that. In her place, you think you would react the exact same way. You wouldn’t believe yourself either.

So much of this relationship – such as it is – must be based on trust. You know that. Your host does not trust you. You know that, too. And what little bit of trust you had garnered from your previous interactions might have just been destroyed by your actions. You know that, as well.

Still.

She’ll come around again.

Eventually.

She _will_.

She has to.

You keep telling yourself that as you return to your side of the gate, but you don’t quite believe it, and since you didn’t notice that there was any change in the rusted key at all, you cannot notice that it is the same as it was when you first saw it. You cannot know that what little progress you made has been hopelessly reverted.

Hope is your curse.

Perhaps it is better that you don’t know.


	32. Chapter 32

You are left in silence.

You spend the time of your days sitting in that space right behind your host’s eyes, knowing that it makes her uncomfortable, knowing that she doesn’t like it, but believing that you have no other option in terms of learning what is going on. Even Jamie has not been meeting with you, although you do not know if this is because of her conversations with your host or because she is simply exhausted. Your host has never been comfortable with your meetings, so you do not understand why her current discomfort should change things.

You have _tried_ to give her privacy after your fight with her – more _her_ fight with _you_ , as you do not—

No, you _do_ hold things against her. Just because she knows more about her current “modern” world does not mean she is better equipped to deal with everything in every situation. There are things you know more about than she does. Dealing with pampered elitists, such as Rafael and Luisa’s father seemed to be, is one of them. You’d spent your _entire life_ dealing with men like that. They don’t change just because the world is more modern now.

Dani refuses to believe you, and you cannot point to specifics in your own life to convince her because there is so much of your own life that you do not remember. General things? Feelings? What the youths may call _vibes?_ Yes. Those you have in abundance. But actual specific memories? Less than you want.

You have remembered your daughter playing hide and seek, and that returned to you her image, her _name_.

 _Isabel._ A small girl, smaller than you were at her age, but full of light and brightness despite the unfortunate reality of her situation – a mother suffering from a fatal illness who refuses to die (and likely should have been dead long ago), a father who doesn’t understand how to manage a manor such as they have (that was always meant to be _your_ realm; you don’t know how you know that, but you do), and an aunt who keeps trying to weasel her way into places where she should never have tried to belong (this, too, you believe is your fault as well, although you can’t say just why or how).

Dark hair, like her mother’s. Bright eyes, like her father’s. She looked so much like what you remember of him, and yet you can pick out your father’s features in her as well.

You cannot share this with Dani. There hasn’t been time, what with everything that happened with the children and preparing to meet their father, and now she is refusing to speak with you at all. You haven’t shared this with Jamie, either, as she hasn’t been meeting with you.

Perhaps this is something just for you – a gift to hold to your chest and keep you warm with something that isn’t the indescribable anger that still seems to be building.

Your memories of your daughter are a bulwark against the frustrations of your host.

She cannot cast you out, and you refuse to leave. You _could_ , if you so chose. But where would you go? Back to the manor? Away from the children who clearly need your help? _Alone, as you have been for so many centuries?_

No.

No, you _refuse_.

And that stubborn refusal bubbles in your chest alongside your seemingly endless rage, two halves of the same whole, one a mere corruption of the other, mixed with the hope that should be so good and right and true and still continues to be denied.

* * *

“You should talk with her.”

“ _I’m not talking with an abuser, Jamie_ ,” Dani hisses, not even looking up from the cookie dough she’s rolling out on their counter. “There’s no point. She’s just going to keep doing what she’s been doing, and my talking just makes _me_ feel better. And then she’ll overstep my boundaries _again_ , and _I’ll_ be the one apologizing.” She thwacks the dough with the rolling pin and takes a deep breath, still staring at it. The specks of cinnamon poke through the more cream and tan dough. It’s easier to focus on _that_ than it is to try and focus on Jamie right now.

Jamie yawns, covering her mouth with one hand. “I think if she wanted to permanently take you over, she could’ve done it before now.” She rips a piece of cookie dough off of the part Dani has rolled thin and pops it in her mouth. “Don’t think she wants that.”

“She could change her mind.” Dani thwacks Jamie’s wandering fingers with the rolling pin. “She already did once.”

Jamie waves her hand in the air. “ _Ouch ouch ouch!_ ” She sticks her fingers in her mouth and speaks around them: “You didn’t have to do _that_.”

“You shouldn’t steal cookie dough.” Dani points to the bowl. “There’s some _right there_ for you.”

Jamie pouts. “More fun if I steal it from you. Reminds me of foster care. Only ever got cookie dough when I managed to pinch a piece." She sighs. “ _And_ if she _really_ changed her mind, I’d be talking to her right now.” She pokes Dani’s side. “Don’t think I’m talking to her right now, am I?”

“Would you even know?”

Dani still doesn’t look up. It’s easier to focus on rolling out the cookie dough again and again. Eventually, she presses it so thin that it starts to rip. Then she balls it up and starts to roll it out again. She isn’t sure that she even wants to make the cookies, just keeping rolling out the dough – over and over and over. (Bread might have been a better option for this, pressing and pressing and whacking it against the counter again and again, but she has never been much good at making bread. She will have to ask Owen about that the next time they see him.)

Jamie moves closer to her – she can see her just out of the corner of her eye – and she seems to hesitate before deciding not to move any closer, instead grabbing an apple and biting into it. “ _’Course I would know._ ” She shakes her head. “Viola’s all prissy and pompous, and she’s got that weird formal way of speaking.” Then she shivers and makes a disgusted expression. “Her pretending to be you is _disgusting_.”

Dani knows that feeling. She doesn’t have to look up to meet Jamie’s eyes – doesn’t _want_ to look up to meet them. The very idea of Viola pretending to be her around anyone, especially around Jamie, makes her stomach churn. But Viola has never done that, never really pretended to be _her_.

She had yesterday, with Emilio and the children.

Dani shivers again.

Jamie places a hand on her back. “Poppins. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Viola doesn’t want to be you. She wants to be _herself_ , even if she don’t quite get who that is.”

“ _Who that is_ is a rage filled monster who lived at the bottom of a lake for centuries and occasionally popped up to kill people. Sometimes children.”

Jamie sighs. “We’ve been _through_ this, Poppins. That’s not who Viola _is_. That’s who she became when she forgot everything. But she’s _remembering things_ now, right?” She taps her head. “The more a person has a hold of themselves, the less likely they become a monster. Unless they were always a monster.”

“ _Like Peter Quint_ ,” Dani says at the same moment Jamie says it. She can’t imagine the sort of creature Quint would have become if he’d been a ghost for centuries in the same manner that Viola had, forgetting himself until there was only that desire for…for what? What had Peter wanted?

It doesn’t matter. He’s dead and gone and _gone_. She doesn’t have to worry about him. She doesn’t have to care about him.

She does, however, have to worry about Viola.

“When Viola was alive, she had a body. She could talk with people. She could be herself. She doesn’t have the option for any of that now, unless she takes me over, and just because we’ve started….” Dani takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to become the secondary person here, only let out when she decides she wants me out.”

“That’s what you’re doing to her.”

“ _It’s my body._ ” Dani grits her teeth together. “You don’t understand. You _can’t_. Not unless you take her yourself, you won’t understand _any_ of this.”

“So let me take her, then.” Jamie tosses the finished apple core into the trash and props her hands on her waist. “Let me take your ghostie for a little bit. See how I like it. Then _you_ don’t have to deal with her anymore. Viola and me, we get along real well, don’t we, ghostie?”

There’s no answer.

Dani knows better than to believe that means the ghost isn’t paying attention – she can feel Viola sitting right in the bridge of her nose, seeing everything through her eyes. Their voices might be muffled, but paying attention, she can hear – just the same way Dani could when she sat back there, seeing someone speaking with Viola. If the ghost wants to answer, she can. She is just choosing not to. Whether that is to see how Dani will respond or because she would rather not is yet to be seen.

“You can’t just take her,” Dani says, hesitantly. “I don’t think it works that way.” She presses her lips together, holding the rolling pin in both hands, but not rolling forward, not doing anything, just staring at the dough and the specks of cinnamon within it. Her eyes search the dough – not really focusing on it, just her mind processing, thinking. “And I don’t….”

Dani shakes her head. “Housing Viola isn’t what you think it is, Jamie, and the kids….” She sighs. “They expect me to be her. They expect _her_ , not me. If you take her, it’ll feel….” Her voice fades away.

“Sounds like you’re more upset about these kids wanting _her_ instead of _you_ ,” Jamie says. She wraps an arm around Dani’s waist and rests her head on her shoulder. “You know that _I’ll_ always want you. Ghostie smells weird. All that time soaking in the lake. She _stinks_ of fish.”

Dani laughs and turns just enough to press a small kiss to Jamie’s cheek. “You can’t take her. I’ve got to keep her. Thanks for the offer, though. I would _love_ to get rid of her.” She sighs. “Guess I have to live with her. I don’t really _want_ to.”

“So lay down some ground rules. _This is when you can force possess me_ or something like that.” Jamie mimics her, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Ghostie should be reasonable. She’s always been reasonable with me.”

“Then maybe _you_ should lay down the ground rules. She listens to you.”

“Mmmmm.” Jamie snuggles against her. “I think you should be the one talking with her. She’d listen to _you_ , too, if you spent more time with her. Think of it like training a dog. They listen to the people who train them.”

Dani glances over to her. “I’m pretty sure I remember that she doesn’t like being referred to as a dog, and she doesn’t like being leashed.”

“’Course she doesn’t. Nobody likes being called a dog. _Puppy_ , maybe. Puppies are cute. People _like_ puppies. Call someone a dog, though, and that’s a bit derogative. _Bitch_ , though. There can be some good in bitch.” Jamie reaches around Dani, fingers curling around the edge of the dough.

Dani smacks her with the rolling pin again. “ _I told you to quit doing that._ ”

Jamie jumps back from her and licks the dough from her finger, proceeding to pout as she does so. “And I told you it’s much more fun to steal it than it is to just lick a bowl clean. I’m not a dog either, you know.”

“I never said you were a—” Dani sighs in exasperation and shakes her head. “I’m starting to think you don’t even _want_ cookies. You just want the dough.”

Jamie shrugs. “Think you just wanted something you could smack with that pin there.”

“That’s not….”

“ _Don’t lie to me, Poppins._ ”

Dani presses her lips together and finally nods. “Alright, it’s true, but you didn’t hear me say it.”

“Definitely didn’t.” Jamie steps closer – hesitant, as though afraid of being bitten. “But if you’re done with thwacking the shit out of that thing, and we know _I_ want the dough, maybe we just…don’t make the cookies. Dough’s better anyway, ain’t it?”

“I’m not sure about that.” But Dani can’t stop herself from smiling. She glances down at the rolling pin and tosses it into the sink. She hasn’t even pulled out cookie cutters. “ _Fine_ ,” she says, looking back up and finally meeting Jamie’s eyes. “We can just eat the dough.” She points a finger at her. “But if either of us get salmonella—”

“That’s not as big of a risk as people always say it is.” Jamie rolls her eyes. “I mean, how many times did _you_ hear people tell you not to eat cookie dough, and then how many times did you eat it anyway, and how many times did it _actually_ make you sick?”

Dani nods, lips still pressed together. “You make a good point.” She starts to gather the dough up to put it in the bowl, but Jamie stops her. She looks up. “What?” she asks. “Something wrong?”

“You don’t listen, Poppins. Told you it’s more fun to _steal_ it.”

“You’re not stealing it if I’m not doing anything with it,” Dani replies, eyes narrowing. “I’m giving it to you. For free. You can take it.”

“Oh, that’s no fun.”

Dani laughs. “You didn’t think this through, did you?”

Jamie pauses, and then a grin – wicked and bright – spreads across her lips. “Definitely thought _this_ through.” She takes a handful of flour from their nearby container and throws it at Dani’s face.

Dani’s mouth drops open. Her eyes grow wide. “You…you _didn’t_.”

“Pretty sure I did, Poppins.” Jamie props one hand on her hip and stares at her. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Well, _first_ , I’m going to move the dough out of the way because if it gets more flour it’s just not going to taste _any_ good and I did _not_ waste all that time making this for you to _waste it_ because you want a _childish flour fight_ —”

Another handful of flour hits Dani’s back as she lifts the dough and places it in the bowl. She covers it with plastic wrap, sneaks it into the refrigerator, and then shoots a glare at Jamie. “Oh, it is _on_.”

* * *

You haven’t said anything, but you continue to look out of Dani’s eyes as she and Jamie continue their flour fight. It seems childish to you. But not in an _inferior_ sort of way that you’ve heard in your host’s tone when she says something is childish. You don’t consider yourself better for not being involved; in fact, a part of you would love to take part in such a small thing, to throw flour at your partner or a friend (or your daughter, who you can imagine would have loved this sort of thing, if you had ever been well enough to play with her in this manner). You would love to snatch a bit of cookie dough from that meant to make cookies; you would love to learn how to bake, something you think you likely didn’t learn during your lifetime. You long to taste something like it on the tip of your tongue again. You still do not eat when you have control of your host’s body, although you do drink your tea.

There are things that your host eats that you know did not exist in your time – or if they did, then they certainly didn’t exist where you were – and you would love to taste them, too, to know your own preferences. Your likes, your dislikes. It’s the same sort of longing that makes you ache for clothes of your own, for a _life_ of your own.

Your host would be afraid of this desire, if she knew of it. Truth is, she’s guessed at it in part – that longing to be your own person, to live your own life – although her guessing is built from the fear that you will harvest her life to live your own. But you _had_ your chance to live. You do not intend to steal hers, even if she has agreed to share it with you.

You move away from the dark void between her eyes and follow the path back to your half of the gate.

The idea that Jamie proposed – that she should take you and leave your current host as her own person – is _definitely_ tempting. Dani’s objections are sound, but you cannot imagine that she will be teaching Rafael forever. Perhaps not even longer than a few months. And when she is finished with that, what then?

Perhaps your burden would be best if it were split among them. Perhaps you would get along much better with Jamie than you do with Dani.

But what if moving into a new person means forgetting what you have gained? Are you even able to switch bodies from one person to another? You think it’s possible that you could, if you so desired, if someone asked for you.

Still.

You think, if you are to move, then it would be best to wait for someone who truly wants you with them, not someone just taking you in to cover for someone they actually _do_ care for. You want someone who wants you for you.

You are not sure that you will ever find that.


End file.
